Deliverance
by eirabach
Summary: Because what is the point, she wonders, of saving all those happy endings if the only one she can't save is her own. Then again, he'd said he'd never seen her fail. She's not about to prove him wrong now. (5b-ish fic. Contains casting spoilers. Rated for language.)
1. Stop All the Clocks

_**I offer my apologies both to W.H. Auden for the chapter title theft and to Adam and the Ants for co-opting a line from 'Stand and Deliver', and for pretty much everything else. Heh.**_

 _ **Underworld fic, because why not. Any resemblance to actual show events is both very unlikely and total luck (occasional set spoilers may sneak in, only to be immediately jossed). Parts of this first chapter have appeared in altered form as drabbles in 'Or High Water', which I am now attemptin**_ _ **g to turn into a full fic - wish me luck.  
**_

 _ **This chapter brought to you by White Lies 'EST.', eggnog lattes and scribbling on the school run.**_

* * *

 **Chapter One**

 **Stop All the Clocks**

* * *

" _ **Part of my soul I seek thee, and claim thee my other half"**_

― _**John Milton – Paradise Lost**_

* * *

 _He loves her._

 _He loves her so furiously, that he can feel it thrumming through his very soul, piggy-backing off of the bitter darkness._

 _He loves her so intensely, that the voices in his head are screaming in rage, tearing him asunder even as she lifts the sword to strike and he could tear his own skin off because it_ _ **burns.**_

 _He loves her so purely he would die over and over, he would, to be a hero, to be her hero, but it hurts by the gods it hurts and her hair is so bright in the darkness, still his light, even now, even –_

 _He loves her._

 _He dies._

He wakes up.

That was the first mistake.

* * *

She supposes it makes perfect sense.

It really is a dreadful coincidence that every significant event, every unutterably shitty, outstandingly awful moment in Emma's life has occurred within the sixty seconds that make up 8.15. It's the sort of coincidence that Buzzfeed articles are written about, and yeah okay she knows all about number recognition and confirmation bias, but she's the _Savior_ and the product of _True Love_ and her whole life is supposed to be a fairy tale (some fairy tale) and coincidences just don't happen to Emma fucking Swan.

The final, undeniable proof of this is not only that she's now in Hell, but guess what time it is.

Maybe that's why she's so oddly unsurprised by the appearance of the Underworld.

Storybrooke is burning and creaking, fog crawling unnaturally around their knees, the clock tower lying shattered in the street. That damned clock face glows an appropriately eerie orange as Robin reaches a hesitant hand towards it. Emma spots a charred, yellow lump out of the corner of her eye and chokes back a surprised little sob. Of course. Of _course_. She hasn't lost enough in the last twenty-four hours. What's next? Will the devil take her record collection?

 _I know when you're quoting something._

 _I love that you never know what it is._

She's not crying. She hasn't got time for crying.

To stop the burn behind her eyes she concentrates on the people who are milling around, paying Emma and the others no mind - as if this destruction is perfectly normal. Which, she supposes, it is in a way.

This is just Storybrooke on steroids.

"Do you feel that?" Snow hefts her bow, brow furrowed. Something skitters down the back of Emma's neck.

"Feel what?" Robin's hands twitch to follow Snow's lead.

Regina reaches for his elbow to comfort, to steady, and Emma schools her jealous sneer into a determined sort of scowl and wonders just how deep a stain the darkness has left.

Deep enough for this, she hopes.

"There's something about the air…" Snow trails off, eyes flickering between Rumpelstiltskin and Emma waiting for… well, something.

Emma takes a deep breath. Her mother's right, there is something odd about it, a sort of cloying stickiness that makes it hard to breathe back out. There's a permanence to it that makes her head spin; once you're in, there's no backing out.

The fog swells and swirls and smells vaguely of sulphur and Emma clutches the ring round her neck and thinks _we'll see about that_.

Regina is still watching the aimless pedestrians, but with wild eyes, her right hand clutching desperately to Henry's backpack whilst her left searches for Robin's.

"This is not what I was expecting," she hisses from between clenched teeth.

David, his gun in hand, draws closer to Emma's side.

"I don't get it," he sounds wary, "why would Hell look like Storybrooke?"

"Why would it not?" Robin grumbles. Emma catches Henry's eye, and he quirks his eyebrow in a devastatingly familiar way.

Rumpelstiltskin, who has held himself separate from them and now is marching ahead, _tsks_ loudly.

"Not Hell, dearie, the _Underworld_. It's a nowhere land."

Emma jogs slightly to catch up with him.

"What do you mean?"

He cuts his eyes at her and she is hard pressed to recall the way he cowered before her just short days ago. Hard pressed to remember why that was such a bad thing, too, come to mention it.

"Just what I say. This place only exists so far as it exists in the minds of those who inhabit it. A sort of," he waves his hand dismissively, "welcoming delusion for the recently deceased."

Regina glowers at him, "So it looks like Storybrooke because we'll find that _comforting_?"

"I don't feel especially comfortable," Snow hisses, bow string drawn tight.

"I thought the souls of those we've lost were supposed to greet us?" David says, "Wouldn't that be a bit more comforting than whatever this is?"

"Oh no," Regina shakes her head, "I didn't sign up for any of this. I agreed to get your pirate and get out of here."

"But wouldn't you want to?" Snow relaxes her stance, looking around with suddenly much more interested eyes, "what if there's a chance we can see some of our own friends and family again?"

Regina's knuckles turn white where they curl over Henry's shoulder.

A couple walking past stop at Snow's words, their heads turning towards the group in a synchronised motion that reminds Emma uncomfortably of too many late night B-movie binges.

"Cree-py," Henry sing-songs quietly, ever with a teenager's eye for the dramatic.

"We ought to split up," Rumpelstitskin is already hallway across the street, clearly heading for the battered façade of his own shop. Emma swings to face him, still painfully aware of the couple stood stock still, steadily staring.

"That is a truly terrible idea," Robin states, before she has to.

"No, no he's got a point," Snow says. Emma spins back to her mother, who has clearly lost her fucking mind. The looks of disbelief Snow is receiving seem universal. Even the creepy people twist their heads a little more in confusion. "We need to find out where Hook – where Killian – is, and we need to find out how to get out of here. We need an exit plan. This is Storybrooke, we know it. Let's use what we know."

"We will need magical assistance, I have no doubt," Rumpelstiltskin gestures over his shoulder, "and I happen to know where to find some."

Snow looks to Emma, and Emma nods. The further away he is from her, the less she has to fight the urge to strangle him with his own tie. He practically _runs_ down the street and she wonders if he's more afraid of the Underworld or of _her_. She wonders if she should be pleased. (She is.)

"Snow White teaming up with Rumpelstitskin. This is a _very_ _personal_ Hell." Regina grouses, but her eyes are still flickering in panic and Emma remembers that there was a very, very good reason Regina didn't want to end up here. Still, she steels herself, addressing Emma directly and managing to keep the fear to the tremble in her fingers, "I'll head to my office; hopefully the Underworld has a dedicated filing clerk."

"I'll go with you," Robin says softly, but Regina shakes her head.

"No, no you look after Henry. Whatever is waiting for me there, well. It's waiting for _me_. And that's what it'll get."

There's an attempt at the patented Evil Queen lip-curl, but to Emma's eyes it falls a bit flat.

"Okay," Robin has quickly learnt not to argue it seems, even though everyone can see the tension in his shoulders, "I'll take Henry and head to the diner – try to set up some sort of base of operations."

"Like in Camelot," David agrees.

 _This had better go_ nothing _like Camelot,_ Emma pointedly doesn't say.

"Snow and I will head out towards the town line, see how big this place really is," he continues, and then turns to Emma. "You should stay with Henry and Robin, rest up, gather your strength."

Emma barks out a laugh. The watching couple clearly sense something of her feelings about that idea, because they turn away and hustle off down the street, heads down and feet in sync.

"Forget it. Don't even think about it. I'm going to the docks."

"Alone?" Snow's gone all motherly, and Emma bites her lip to avoid pointing out that this was at least partially her idea.

"I need," Emma takes as deep a breath as she can manage, suddenly aching with exhaustion, "to see what's… if he's… I mean it seems obvious I know, but..."

 _But he might not be there. But he might be there and hate me. But he might_ be there.

Regardless, she has no interest in an audience for whatever comes next – because she's either breaking down or _breaking down_ and she's seen enough well-meant sympathetic winces recently to last her several lifetimes.

David smiles at her, gives her one of his understanding little nods, and she manages a tremulous smile back. Henry rushes up to her and throws his arms around her waist in a hug more ferocious than any she's had in months ( _I can't hug you here mom, people will_ see).

"Tell him we're waiting," he says, and Emma is forcibly reminded that she isn't the only one lost and grieving here.

"I will, kid."

She hopes she sounds surer than she feels, anyway.

They part ways, Emma watching Robin and Henry until they disappear before she makes her way through the distressingly familiar streets. The wandering locals ( _zombies_ , her mind helpfully supplies) seem to fade away as she gets closer to the waterside, until it's just her, alone in the ever thickening fog. Her feet hit the wooden decking and the silence is absolute.

"Killian?"

She means to call out, but it's a harsh little croak, nothing more. Ahead of her, something creaks and it reminds her of the Jolly, still anchored safely at home. No idea that she's Captain-less.

It's not normal to be jealous of a ship, surely.

"Killian?" She tries again, and it comes out a little stronger.

The fog parts just in front of her feet, as if in answer, and she has the time to notice what's creaking (a rowboat, lantern lit, empty) and that her toes are on the edge of the dock before she's falling, face first, into the space between its seats. There's a huff, as if of swallowed laughter, from somewhere above her and then the boat is moving and the fog is closing in and the air is just too thick to breathe and…

Somewhere in the distance, she hears her mother scream.

* * *

 ** _Your thou_** _ **ghts, headcanons and**_ _ **general underworld based flails feed the muse :) Also mahstatins on tumblr, come say hi!  
**_


	2. Keep Going

_**A/N: Chapter title compliments of Sir Winston Churchill, written with the help of Fleetwood Mac. Thank you very much to those who have reviewed/favourited/followed. This chapter was a bit like pulling teeth but I really wanted it out before Christmas, hope you enjoy.**_

 _ **In the interests of full disclosure: I have never seen Disney's Hercules. Certain characters may play a significantly larger role on the show than they are going to play here, too. That's the joy of fic I guess!**_

* * *

 **Chapter Two**

 **(If You're Going Through Hell) Keep Going**

* * *

" _ **Hell is empty and all the devils are here."  
– William Shakespeare – The Tempest**_

* * *

 _Mortal souls are funny things._

 _They exist as a sort of shimmering miasma made up of memories and emotions, all locked up in brittle little cells of skin and sinew. Infinitely delicate, infinitely precious._

 _In a word – paydirt._

 _And Hades doesn't much care for those who renege on their debts._

 _He eyes the slip of a human with something not quite approaching interest as she clambers from the boat, glaring balefully up at him. There's a circle of golden light surrounding her that he's quite sure she doesn't know she possesses – it's glorious, and the part of him that has always appreciated beauty feels a slight pang of guilt. It is_ slight _._

" _What have you done with my family?"_

 _Her eyes flash dark, and he curls his lip into something he thinks might be a smile because ah, he knows that look, and when she pulls a gleaming little pistol from her clothing he doesn't even laugh._

 _After all, he is a gentleman._

 _Now this, he is going to enjoy._

* * *

It takes Emma a worryingly long time to realise that she's regained consciousness – the wisps of smoke and distant pinpricks of light in her vision feel at first like they might be the effects of a concussion – and it's only really the feel of rough wood at her back and the certainty of splinters in her palms that lead to her wobbling to her feet. It's dark here, only a blueish glow to see by and the air stinks of sulphur and something sweet and stale that reminds her of graveyards. In front of her on the rising rocky ground at the foot of an imposing cliff, is a middle-aged man in an extremely expensive suit sitting on an outrageously oversized throne.

"Charmed to meet you," he says. Emma's super-power kicks into high gear – whatever he is, it's certainly not charmed. "I'm Hades. Welcome, welcome to my home."

She's not welcome, either, that much is abundantly clear.

 _What the bloody hell have you got yourself into, Swan?_

She concentrates on Killian's voice in her head to distract herself from the absence at her side.

"What have you done with my family?" she spits, her mother's scream still echoing in her ears.

"Family, darling?" Hades stretches languidly on his throne, which some disconnected part of Emma's brain notes can't be all that comfortable, made as it is out of what appear to be thigh bones, "You people are applying that term lightly these days."

Emma rips her gun from the holster almost without realising she intends to and points it square at his forehead.

"What a curious little thing you are." He looks at her like she's a mildly interesting insect, "So very angry."

She is angry. Furiously, violently angry. More than that though; she's utterly petrified. She tries to force the fear out of her voice, concentrates on the rage.

"Listen, buddy, you don't know me. You have _no idea_ what I look like angry, and I swear, I _swear_ you do not want to find out."

Her right arm is shaking so hard that she would never be able to hit him, not that it would make any difference if she did she supposes. Hades tilts his head and sighs lightly before standing and approaching the pebbled beach where her boat has come to rest. He lowers the barrel with one finger even as her trembling thumb reaches for the safety.

"Emma," he says, gently, as if to a small child, "I know you better than you know yourself."

Emma sucks in a sharp breath, her gun drops with a clang as she finally loses her grip. Hades leans forward and gives her a wink.

"This is _my_ realm; did you really think you could waltz in uninvited and take me by surprise?" He tuts, "I'd have thought dear old Rumple would have given you _some_ warning."

"How do you know – no, never mind. Just – just tell me where Killian is. You know who I am, you know why I'm here – just let me take him home and we'll all leave, I promise…"

She sounds desperate. She hates it, but by god, she _is_ desperate. He knows it, she can tell. She's the cornered prey and he's going in for the kill.

"Luckily for you dear girl, I am an old romantic. But this is a hero's quest you're undertaking. Are you a hero, Emma Swan?" He looks her up and down, weighing her up.

Finding her wanting.

Her magic prickles at her fingertips and she tries not to miss the treacle-soft weight of the darkness's invincibility. Instead, she forces her chin up, draws blood from her palms as she clenches her fists to quell the shaking.

"I am." She wills her voice to sound strong, to sound sure. "I will be."

"And what of your companions? Is your father without fault, your mother as pure as the driven – well you know." He taps the tips of his fingers together, pretending to be in deep thought.

Emma shakes her head.

"I don't…"

"Understand? No, I suppose you don't. Your reptilian friend wasn't very forthcoming at all was he? The only thing standing in the way of your success, your happiness, is yourself."

"Me?" Emma crinkles her nose. She's done with standing in the way of her own happiness, finished, he must not know her as well as he thinks.

Hades smiles, but not kindly. He smiles like he's reading her mind. He smiles like her knows better.

"You and your compatriots, indeed. You'll be your own worst enemies, as you mortals so very often are. Now I know you know all about making deals and I'm a reasonable man, so here you go. You will face demons in this place, demons of your own making. Defeat them, take your pirate, go home. Fail, and you will have to pay the price for entering this place without permission." He taps a long finger against the face of the ostentatious watch that seems to have suddenly appeared on his left wrist, "I'll give you three of your days, that's a fair head start."

He waves a hand, the dismissal clear, and the rowboat begins to judder beneath Emma's feet, knocking her off balance as it moves back out onto the open water.

"What's the price?" She shouts, because obviously there is always, _always_ a mysterious 'price' and there's no way it could be this easy…

"To be paid, of course, like any other. Don't fear though," he calls cheerfully as the boat floats away and her vision begins to blur, "I take credit!"

* * *

Emma reappears, boat-less and disorientated, in the shadow of the clock tower. Coughing over the lingering stench of brimstone and staggering to her feet. The street is deserted now, dusk, or whatever passes for it here, has fallen. Emma sneaks a look at the clock face.

8.23.

Eight minutes down and she's barely drawn breath.

She turns her back and shakes her head. Hundreds of stakeouts taught her that nothing good ever came of clock watching and she can't afford the distra-

She blinks, once, twice, three times as Cruella De Vil's car careens across the intersection and wow, that's a confrontation she will worry about in her _own_ afterlife thank you very much.

"Emma!" her mother is pegging it towards her, scarf billowing out behind her, with two total strangers in tow. It might be something about the royal in Snow, but she always seems to attract an entourage.

"Emma," Snow gestures with her bow, "this is Hercules and Meg. They're trying to get out of here too."

Emma feels her eyes begin to twitch from the strain of not rolling them. Of course. She thinks back; did she somehow miss the blue flames sparking on Hades' head?

David pants up behind them, hands on his knees.

"I think we lost them."

"You've lost _me_ ," says Emma and she can almost hear the clock ticking. She so does not have time for this.

"Hellbeasts," the woman, Meg, supplies matter-of-factly, "They come out at night. Or whatever passes for it here."

Snow nods.

"He's your mother's ex," says David, giving Emma pointed look.

"Who, the hellbeast?" Weirder things have happened. Weirder things have happened _today_.

"No," David gestures to the man standing silently at Meg's side, "Hercules."

David looks like he can't decide if he's pissed or delighted, Snow and Meg wear identical scowls, and Hercules (who looks like he might be quite useful in a fight but probably not much use in a quiz team) is focused on something over Emma's shoulder. Emma finds herself wishing she was back with Hades.

"The clock's moving," Hercules notes with a furrowed brow, and Emma feels sharply guilty for doubting his intelligence. After all, it's not like her parents have noticed.

"Yes," she marches forward, grabbing each of her parents by the elbow, "it is. We need to regroup, avoid these hellbeasts or whatever they are, and we need to come up with a plan. Quickly."

 _In this world love, we are slaves to time._

"What's happened?" asks David as Snow bids an awkward farewell to her teenage ex (god, her life).

"I met the boss around here, and he told me what we need to do."

"Which is?"

Emma sets her lips in a grim line and begins to march in the direction she'd last seen Henry heading.

"We need to get a goddamn move on."

* * *

Granny's, such as it is, is probably about what Emma should have expected. There are a few grey-faced people sat at dirty tables, chairs tossed to one side as if a party had broken up in a hurry, unwashed plates piled on every available surface and a distinct smell of rotting meat. Between the tables is a long, familiar smear of blood and even though everything else in here feels like decay personified the blood is as red and damp and accusatory as it ever was in Camelot.

Robin, his bow on his back, is pacing up and down beyond the stain as if he can wear a hole out of this world through sheer footwork and force of will.

"Is it as bad as it looks?" asks Emma.

Robin rubs the back of his head. He stops pacing, but continues to sort of shuffle on the spot as if his feet have developed their own nervous tic. He gives her a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

"Worse, the lunch special is meatloaf and the coffee's extortionate." He gestures to an over large pile of silver on the greasy countertop, clearly his payment for the sad, grubby little coffee mug in his left hand.

"I thought you were a thief?" His honest little gesture is almost enough to make her smile back.

"Reformed, well, mostly. And I was trying to set an example for the boy."

Robin nods to where Henry is sitting slouched in a booth, hands listlessly drumming on his backpack as it sits on the table top. Emma feels a rush of gratitude for this man who, if she's being frank, she barely knows. Yet nevertheless has left his tiny children in another realm to help her and can still find it in him to care for her son.

"About paying over the odds for coffee?"

"About carrying on as normal. Even if normal is… missing." They both simultaneously look at the bloodstain on the linoleum and pretend not to, "I'm guessing you didn't find him?"

"No, no, but I found something- some _one_ else. Where are Regina and Gold?"

"Gold's not yet returned, and Regina's…"

"Right here," Regina is pale and a little unsteady as she makes her way past the upturned chairs, avoiding the stain on the floor almost as carefully as Emma avoids acknowledging it. She leans over to kiss Henry's hair before tucking herself into Robin's arms in a manner that Emma has never seen before. She might even call it vulnerable.

If Emma wasn't scared before she sure as hell is now.

"What happened out there?"

Regina fails to suppress a full body shudder, mouth opening and closing soundlessly. Emma sort of knows how she feels; where do you even _start_ in a place like this?

"Had some trouble with the dearly departed?" says David, but despite his concern is etched on his face.

"They're not dearly departed," Regina spits, "they're _dead_! And as far as I'm concerned they can stay that way!"

"Oh, my sweet girl."

The sugar soft voice comes from over Emma's shoulder, but she doesn't need to see the terror in Snow's eyes, the horror all over Regina's face to realise who is speaking; the sick tremor of recognition has already crawled up her spine and settled in her aching chest.

She turns slowly to face the slight, harmless looking figure. Cora is dressed in a warm brown coat and an incongruous pair of ear muffs, but she still wears the glinting hungry smile of a villain and her honeyed voice drips with poison.

"What would be the fun in that?"

* * *

 **Thanks for reading!**

 **Next chapter: Where is Killian, anyway?**


	3. The Road to Ruin

**AN: Still not mine. Thank you for the follows and favourites! Your feedback is greatly appreciated!**

* * *

 **Chapter Three**

 **The Road to Ruin**

* * *

" **True love is never lost, not even by a bishop's or a priest's curse, that we cannot regain it, so long as hope has still its bit of green."**

― **Dante Alighieri - The Divine Comedy: Purgatorio**

* * *

Killian hadn't imagined that he'd be keeping the hook.

Hadn't considered dying overmuch at all if he could help it, truth be told. Obviously, the idea had come up occasionally over immemorial decades of piracy, but whenever the thought had crossed his mind he hadn't taken into account the possibility of spending eternity sitting in what equates to a bog dragging his hook through the stagnant waters and wishing for waves.

There's no-one else in this marshland - just him, his hook, and some unpleasantly malodorous fog. He's been alone since the moment he regained consciousness, if consciousness is what this is, tossed unceremoniously over the side of a rickety old rowboat like so much flotsam. So it seems this is his punishment; eternity in his own company.

Purgatory indeed.

He has no idea how long he's been here – minutes, days, decades even – this place plays havoc with a man's timekeeping. There's no night or day, not so much as anyone would notice anyhow, no clouds or stars, just an ever-present murk - a pea-souper on a windless sea.

"Oh dear, you are rather the pathetic sight, and after I'd heard _such_ good things."

Killian launches himself to his feet, hook raised in anticipation of – well, he's not sure exactly, but it's hardly likely to be anybody pleasant down here. The man who has spoken stands a few feet away, middle-aged, non-descript, wearing a suit that reminds Killian fiercely of those silly mobster programmes Emma was so keen on watching. The man smiles, a slight, sinister thing.

"Killian Jones, I presume."

It's not really a question, but Killian answers anyway, punctuating it with a mocking little bow.

"You presume correctly. And you are?"

The man's smile shifts slightly until it resembles actual amusement.

"I have many names, but here I go by Hades, Lord of the Underworld. You can, if you prefer, call me boss."

He winks. Killian scoffs.

"I think not."

Hades holds both hands up, palms out, in a gesture of surrender that Killian doesn't believe for a moment.

"Now now, hear me out, I have a proposition for you."

Killian raises an eyebrow and smirks, just a little.

Hades has nothing on him. He is free, the darkness defeated, Emma safe, and for all the time he's spent trying not to think about death he's sensible enough to be grateful that when it came for him, it was good. Noble. A hero's death. If he couldn't have his life, well. He's long since accepted that the operative word in the phrase 'happy ending' isn't happy, after all.

And of course he'd rather have lived, spent all the years till he was old(er) and grey by his Swan's side. Making her happy, making her laugh, showing her what it means to be loved _truly,_ and despite all the evidence to the contrary – failed kisses and missed opportunities and wasted time – he knows it was true, because by the gods if that wasn't it, then what was? Of course, he'd rather have had the chance to have made amends for his mistakes. Apologised to Henry. Proven himself to David. Won over Snow. Known what it felt like to look into his own child's eyes.

But as his mother used to say, _if wishes were horses, beggars would ride_.

Hades watches him, eyes narrowed as the amused little smile skews dark.

"I know who you are, Killian. A little lost boy who spent his whole mortal existence mired in vengeance and hate. Who wanted nothing more than love and peace and redemption but just couldn't seem to stop it all falling to shreds, never believed he deserved it. Quite the tragic tale, the way you were your own worst enemy all along."

"That's not entirely true." Killian bristles slightly at the implication. Yes, so much of his misery had been brought about by his own poor choices, but his worst enemy had always and would always be -

"Oh no, your crocodile." Hades interrupts his thoughts as if he can read them, "He's an interesting sort, isn't he. Not half as clever as he thinks he is, no doubt, but he still bested you in the end."

"He didn't. I defeated the darkness, I defeated _him_. I left them safe, all of them."

 _I left her safe_.

"Did you? Because I have a lot of contacts, and, just between you and me now, I hear there's a new Dark One in town. One _specific_ town. Of course, new may not be quite the right word…"

"What?" It comes out choked and two octaves above normal, because if that's true, _if that's true_ …

"Keep up, boy. I thought you were smart. Rumplestiltskin took the darkness. Rumplestiltskin is the Dark One. I'm terribly sorry to tell you, but your rather brutal death was all in vain."

He was weak. He was weak and too late and _too late_.

"You're lying!" he half yells, half sobs.

Hades says nothing. He doesn't need to. Killian knows there's no lie. He hopes he's drunk, that he's inhaled the river water, hopes that he's hallucinating a circumstance he could never have imagined in his wildest nightmares. He hopes for all this and more, but he knows only one thing for certain:

He has failed.

He has failed _her_.

Bloody, blithering, fucking _hell_.

"I'm not a cruel man." Hades tilts his head to one side and clucks in a way that Killian imagines he believes to be sympathetic. "I am sorry that it ended up this way."

The lie is so outrageously obvious that Killian finds himself going for the sword that is no longer at his hip. Mind you, he thinks in the little dark corner of his mind that isn't spinning totally out of control, the last sword he'd owned had ended up sticking two feet out of his back, so perhaps that was for the best.

"You collect the souls of the dead and keep them here forever." He tries to cover up the way his voice breaks with venom, even though it's probably far too little too late, "forgive me, but cruel or not, you are no man."

"My dear boy, there's only one guarantee in life, and that's that nobody gets out of it alive." His smile turns disturbingly fatherly, "I scratch your back, you scratch mine. I need a man to, shall we say, keep the peace? You need to let go of the things that have blackened your heart, find closure, find _solace_. I can help you with that. I can take away all those feelings that have held you back all these years, take away the pain, the regret. I can redeem you, Killian."

Hades' eyes twinkle, his smile almost lascivious, and Killian knows what's happening, doesn't want to be tempted, but. _But_.

"What would keeping your peace involve, precisely?" He keeps his voice light, off-hand, as if he's not considering working for this… creature.

It doesn't fool Hades for a second that much is clear.

"Nothing you haven't done before, I assure you. Keep things quiet. Peaceful. Uphold the status quo. You were a lieutenant on a naval ship, were you not? Surely you know a little something about keeping people in their…" Hades hesitates, only slightly, but enough for Killian's despair be tinted with suspicion, "place."

Killian says nothing, and Hades seems to realise that he's losing his grip. He changes tack, looking down at Killian's hook and sneering, "So what will it be? Will you take the opportunity I'm so _generously_ offering, or would you prefer to stay here and rust?"

"All right," Killian says, because he's tired. Tired, and lonely, and bowed under the weight of failure because by the gods he can't even _die_ properly. And maybe this time, eventually, he will be able to earn the redemption that kept slipping through his living fingers. Maybe one day, one far away day when Emma has lived her happily ever after and is old and frail and finally goes to the place that heroes go, he will have earnt a place there too. Maybe one day, she might grace him with a smile.

That will be enough. That will have to be enough.

Hades claps his hands with more glee than the situation warrants, "Wonderful, wonderful. I knew I could rely on you Captain! Now hold on to your hook!"

The ground around Killian begins to quake and crumble, bringing him to his knees as blue flame flares from the cracks and the river heaves and bursts and drains away. Hades stands steady above him, beaming, his smile the most terrible thing and Killian realises that this is a mistake. This is a dreadful mistake.

"What's the catch!" he yells, struggling to make himself heard over the rumble of the world coming apart around him.

Hades has the cheek to look surprised, "I told you, boy. None of those pesky emotions that so ruled your mortal life. What was it you said? _Love brings nothing but wasted years and endless torment?_ It's not a catch, it's a favour!"

He can't speak. His heart, such as it is, if he even has such a thing here, seems to swell in his chest. It burns and aches and tears from his ribcage and –

He knows this feeling. Knows it all too well.

Hades' hand is outstretched, fingers clawed, grasping and pulling at something blinding and gold that shimmers in the space between them. It takes Killian a moment to realise it's coming from him, because it isn't blackened and charred and ruined but beautiful and shining and –

And true.

He won't let him take it. Man or god or demon. This is his and hers and he _won't_ he _won't._

It dims to a glow, pulled tight between his chest and Hades' greedy fingers.

"Don't make this difficult," Hades grunts, "we made a deal. Business is business."

Emma, he thinks. Emma. Emma. Red jacket, golden hair, eyes the colour of sea glass. The girl with the kindest heart and the sharpest tongue, and the smile that sets his world ablaze. He thinks of the way her nose fits into the crook of his neck and the way her lips chap at the edges and of every freckle –

Darkness falls and he thinks of nothing at all.

He wakes up.

(That was the second mistake.)

* * *

Emma feels simultaneously wound up to the point of breaking and numb from utter exhaustion as Cora Mills, motherfucking mayor of the underworld, cradles a dishwater coffee in a take-out cup as she leads Emma and her family past the burnt out cars and smouldering trash cans at the edge of town.

"We've already been out this way."

David directs his complaints to Regina, the awkward intermediary, who is trotting two paces behind her mother. Emma is bringing up the rear, which feels wrong, but Snow has her hand in a vice-like grip and there's no getting her within ten feet of Cora. For good reason, Emma supposes. Whatever else Cora is, she's the murder victim here.

"Will you tell that shepherd to stop grousing?"

Regina turns half-angry, half-pleading eyes on David.

"I'm not grousing," David clearly grouses, "I'm simply pointing out that we have come this way once already and that this is clearly a massive waste of – "

"Enough!"

Cora spins around, coffee spilling over the sides of her cup. Snow cringes back.

"You don't want me here, I most _certainly_ don't want to be here, but this is a tricky place and if you want to find Rumplestiltskin…"

"It's not Rumplestiltskin we're interested in finding," Emma starts at Robin's words, spoken as harshly as they are. Perhaps she will have allies if it comes to leaving the Dark One to rot here, after all. She see steel glint in David's eyes. Maybe it'll even be a unilateral agreement.

"Perhaps not," says Cora, tilting her head a little in what could be understanding, "but without him you won't get far."

"We have magic of our own, mother," hisses Regina.

"Magic? You think that's what you need to keep him around for?" Cora tosses her head back and laughs harshly, "This is not a land like any other, darling. The rules are different here."

"You could share these rules with us," David calls, irritated.

"I will share everything that it's within my power to do so."

Cora has turned to stare resolutely ahead into the forest, meaning Emma can't see her expression, but there's nothing in her words or her tone that indicates a lie.

"Why are you helping us?"

Emma isn't the only one surprised to hear Snow speak up; Cora turns back to face her, wide eyed.

"Because for one moment, before you murdered me in cold blood to save the man you now seem so keen to be rid of," Emma and David exchange a look, Cora's not wrong after all and they do say that hindsight is twenty-twenty, "you reminded me of something very important."

"Really?" Regina crosses her arms over her chest and moves to block her mother's view of Snow, "and what was that?"

Cora takes a half step forward, a tremulous little smile pulling at the corner of her mouth.

"What it is to love."

Regina gapes at her mother, Cora's eyes shimmer with unshed tears, and Emma has probably never felt more awkward in her life.

The moment hovers on a knife-edge, the next word out of Regina's mouth having the power to turn it either touching or violent, before it is broken by a terrible crashing sound from the undergrowth and the clamour of weapons drawn.

The monster that appears isn't the one Emma was afraid of, instead it is Rumplestiltskin who staggers from the bushes. His jacket is missing, his shirtsleeves torn, and the hand that's tugging at his ruined tie is pale and shaking.

"Glad you could join us."

Emma notes that Cora sounds about as glad as Emma herself feels.

"Have you been wrestling with bears again?" She asks, unable to keep the little frisson of glee she gets from seeing him frightened from her voice. He looks at her but doesn't quite meet her eyes, and suddenly it's as if they're back in her basement with the sword in the stone and all the cards in her hands.

 _If she tells herself she doesn't miss it, she won't. Right?_

"Pan." He pants, reminding Emma even more fervently of the cowardly man she'd held in her basement. It didn't inspire sympathy in the Dark Swan then and it's not raising much in Emma now, but his words have certainly sparked a ripple of interest.

"Pan?" Regina reaches out and pulls Henry to her side, "he's here?"

"He's… I don't know where he is." Rumplestiltskin gives up on the tie, instead pulling it free and using it to dab at the sweat on his upper lip.

As much joy as Emma gets from seeing Rumplestiltskin out of his comfort zone, the thought of his megalomaniacal teenage father wandering free where he can get to her son is not in the least enjoyable.

"He is the least of your problems Rumple, as you very well know." Cora rolls her eyes, punctuating her words with an irritated little huff that Regina seemingly subconsciously echoes.

"What's she talking about?" David hasn't put his gun away, and from his tone he's within moments from turning it on Cora and damn the consequences.

Robin has clearly taken note of David's frustration, "What are you talking about?" he asks in a far more gentle voice. Emma waits for the son-in-law quip that won't come.

"Rumplestiltskin has paid a visit to us before, haven't you _dearie_?" Cora is snide and bitter; however Rumplestiltskin spent his time in the underworld, very little of it appeared to have been spent on mending bridges with his old lover.

"Yes we know, but - " Curiosity has loosened Snow's tongue. Cora and Rumplestiltskin both cut their eyes at her.

"Suffice it to say I did not leave on the best of terms with my host."

"You don't say!" David clutches dramatically at his chest.

"Quelle surprise," snorts Regina under her breath.

They have a point, Emma thinks, Rumplestiltskin has rarely left anywhere on good terms with anyone. This is different though. Bigger.

She sees the look he and Cora exchange.

Much bigger.

Cora shakes her head slightly as if dismissing a bad memory, "One of the many reasons we should seek shelter, there are things that wander this realm that we would best avoid."

"We noticed." Snow and David speak in tandem.

Cora's word sink in and Emma stumbles back as if she's been shot.

"Wait, you want to seek shelter? You want to what, camp out? We don't have _time_ for this! I told you we've got _three days_!" Snow is stroking her arm and okay, okay maybe she sounds a bit hysterical but they _don't have time for_ this, "Dad!" she latches onto the one person who she thinks might back her up, "Dad, tell her!"

David winces but doesn't meet her frantic stare.

Henry has her back though, brave, loyal Henry, turning on Cora with a pleading expression.

"It's not like anything here can like, kill us, right? I mean, the people here are already, y'know…"

Cora says nothing, but Rumplestiltskin steps forward, arm raised as if he's going to pat Henry on the shoulder. Henry steps back, and something flickers behind the Dark One's cold eyes.

"Dead? Henry, there are far worse things than death." He moves to lead them further into the woods, and Emma is almost too busy watching, horror-struck, as her family follow him to catch the fear in his final words, "Trust me. I should know."


	4. Memoriam

**AN: Halfway through (probably). Thanks again for the reviews/faves/follows. Y'all are very kind. Hope you enjoy!**

* * *

 **Chapter Four**

 **Memoriam**

* * *

 _ **"Give me the waters of Lethe that numb the heart, if they exist, I will still not have the power to forget you." – Ovid**_

* * *

Emma doesn't sleep.

The irony doesn't entirely escape her. All those nights back in Camelot wishing for nothing more than a good night's rest and now she finally can sleep, she absolutely can't.

They've ended up in this world's equivalent of Gold's cabin. Her parents and Henry are dozing fitfully on the sofas, whereas Regina and Cora have taken advantage of the privacy of the bedroom. Low murmurs have been coming from behind the locked door sporadically, fortunately unpunctuated by screaming or the sounds of breaking glass. Robin has fallen asleep slumped in front of the door regardless, just in case.

In the absence of hordes of undead or magical firefights the quiet weighs heavily on Emma and her only companion. Rumplestiltskin has taken up position in front of the cabin window, the only movement the drumming of his fingers on the sill. He hasn't spoken to her, and she's said nothing to him. What is there to say, anyway?

She wonders if he broke the habit of a lifetime before they came here, and told Belle the truth. She wonders if it will make any difference.

She's always struggled with that, with the way Belle seems to constantly forgive the unforgivable. It never made sense – a bright, beautiful, intelligent woman repeatedly falling back into the arms of a monster – but now, well. Now she's been the monster, and there's more than one type of fear keeping her awake.

"You think terribly loudly, Miss Swan."

Emma just glares at the back of his neck.

"Well," he chirps, stepping smartly away from the window, "despite your delightful company, I'm afraid I must be off."

"Off?" She hisses, very aware of their sleeping companions, "where the hell do you think you can go?"

"Interesting choice of words. Not that it's any of your business, but I have personal matters to see to."

"What sort of matters?" she rises from her perch on the coffee table, "Cora says you've made enemies here, what do you know that we don't?"

"That would be rather a long list, dearie, don't you think?"

Something hot and vicious sparks in her fingertips. Rumple wags a finger at her as he reaches the door.

"Be careful, Miss Swan. Magic, even light magic, is an unpredictable beast. And I wager that right now yours is more unpredictable than most. Do you want to burn this place to the ground with such precious contents?" He smirks in the direction of Henry; Emma allows herself to imagine punching him square in his smug little face.

"I'm not letting you go alone."

"I'm afraid you don't have much of a choice, unless you want to leave your family here alone." He looks thoughtful, "How much do you trust Cora, really?"

"More than I trust you." She spits out, almost without thinking.

"I always thought you were a clever girl," he says as the door closes behind him and Emma can't tell if he's surprised or impressed.

"Are you going after him?"

Henry's voice cracks from sleep, which combined with his bleary gaze makes him seem even younger. Emma gives him a wobbly smile.

"You heard what he said, Henry. I can't leave you here, it's not safe."

Henry shuffles out from under Snow's coat and shrugs.

"Nothing worth doing ever is, mom. And anyway, you can't just sit here and wait for Killian to turn up."

"Can't I?" she allows herself a little giggle at Henry's expansive eye roll.

"Our lives are never that easy."

Despite her smile, she feels her heart crack a little bit further. Henry has seen so much, and he's just a kid, and god what is she thinking bringing him here at all…

"Don't look at me like that," he scowls.

"Like what?"

"Like you're wishing you'd left me cooped up in the convent with Roland and the babies."

She reaches over to ruffle his hair, and he lets her with only a huff of protest.

"Can you blame me?"

Henry scrubs the toe of his boot against the floor and picks at a thread on his jumper.

"No. But mom," he makes eye contact, expression pleading, "I'm not a little kid any more. I'm the author, and I want to help. I want to help _Killian_."

If she'd only known, all those months ago, what one sailing trip would turn into maybe she'd have suggested it sooner, or maybe, to save him this pain, she'd never have allowed him to go at all.

Emma kisses him firmly on the forehead. His fingers twitch but he doesn't wipe it away.

"Okay, okay. This is an official operation after all."

Henry's eyes twinkle. "I have some ideas for names."

"Mmm, I bet," Emma's attention wanders towards the door again. She wonders what time it is, and how nice it must be to be the sort of person who wears a watch. Henry raises an eyebrow.

"So are you going after him or what?"

"I am," she squares her shoulders, "will you be okay?"

"Eh, I'll be fine," he sizes up Snow's bow where it sits propped up against the wall with more enthusiasm than Emma would like, "I don't go _looking_ for trouble."

"Nor do I kid, but it seems to follow us around all the same."

The last thing she hears is his whispered reply.

"Lucky us."

* * *

Underbrooke – Henry's idea, and she'd actually laughed when he came up with it – is busy in the reddish dawn, its population meandering the streets seeing to their daily business as if the shops sold coffee and bagels instead of coffins and candles. The window of what ought to be Modern Fashions catches her eye as she heads towards Gold's shop. The wedding dress that has been displayed in the window back home for, god, it feels like years, has been replaced with painfully familiar black leather and it makes her _hurt_. It's not like she'd ever have wanted the fluffy eighties confection even if – even if. But.

But you don't know what you want till it's gone, or however that old saying goes.

She doesn't know what she's expecting to find at the pawn shop, except that maybe she can't think of anywhere else Rumplestiltskin would go, but she's still surprised to find the door hanging open, half off its hinges. The sheriff inside rears her head and she reaches for her gun.

The store is empty, or empty at least of thieves or enraged Dark Ones. In every other sense it is overflowing, the organised chaos of its Storybrooke counterpart looking practically OCD compared with the randomised destruction she's faced with. Emma picks her way carefully through a carpet of probably priceless artefacts, cringing as something delicate crunches to dust under her foot.

"Hello?"

Her voice cracks and she swallows hard. There's something not quite right about this place, something even less right than there is about the real thing. The hairs on the back of her neck stand on end.

"Anybody here?"

Her blood thumps in her ears and if this was a horror movie this is totally the moment that the murderer would leap out from behind the counter and who is she kidding her whole life is a horror movie and is that the sound of floorboards creaking or her knees shaking and maybe she's too old for this and…

She doesn't realise she's bolted till she finds herself on the sidewalk, hands on her knees, breath coming in embarrassingly loud pants.

The toes of two pairs of shoes appear at the edge of her vision.

"It might be my name on the door, Miss Swan, but I'm not the pawnbroker around here." Rumplestiltskin doesn't sound at all surprised that she's followed him after all, his face perfectly neutral as she glares up at him and tries to regulate her breathing.

"Yeah, I got that impression, thanks."

He opens his mouth again, snide and smug, and she's just sick of listening to it, cutting him off with a hand in front of his affronted face.

"I've met the guy in charge here, and it ain't you. So you can give up the mysterious shtick. I don't care about you, or your unfinished business or your power-plays. I just want to get Killian and go home."

He lifts a finger as if he's going to argue the point or maybe magically mute her, but he's shoved to one side before he has a chance to do either.

"You're here for Killian?"

Emma hasn't spared his companion so much as a glance before, but now she's got both hands on Emma's shoulders, blue eyes burning, the very air around her seeming to fizz and crackle. Emma has only seen her face once before in a smudged, faded charcoal sketch that she'd stuffed back into the drawer she'd found it in before she could be caught snooping, but it's not the sort of face you forget in a hurry. It would take centuries, she expects. (Knows.)

"Milah?"

Milah, because it wasn't really a question, does about the last thing Emma expects and pulls her into a crushing hug.

"Oh!" Emma gasps, slightly winded, "Oh, okay!"

"Ah, yes. Miss Swan, this is Milah, my…"

"Your _nothing_ ," Milah lets go with a growl but leaves her hands on Emma's shoulders, "How did you get here? Are you alright? Where's Henry?"

Emma gapes at her.

"H-henry?"

Milah nods furiously, tears glittering at the corners of her eyes, and lifts her hands to rub her thumbs along Emma's cheeks. This is seriously weird.

"I'm so sorry," Milah half-sobs through a watery smile, "you must think me very odd."

"I'm pretty used to odd," Emma half smiles back, and Milah laughs, rubbing the back of her hand across her eyes.

"That would be self-evident, I suppose. Considering."

 _Considering you're stood here, next to your ex-husband who_ murdered _you, cuddling me like we're long lost friends, when I'm here to rescue the man we both love from the underworld. And the mother of your grandkid._

"Okay this is weird, even for me," she admits.

Milah's sympathetic little grimace strikes a familiar chord, and all the air rushes out of Emma's lungs. She hasn't even thought about the prospect – her headspace has been full of hades and death and _Killian Killian Killian_ – but she's suddenly spinning on the spot, eyes searching.

"Nea- Baelfire. Is he here?"

The look that passes between Milah and Rumplestiltskin twists her gut.

"No. It would appear my boy left us with no unfinished business to hand."

Rumplestiltskin's bitterness is clear and Milah's reply is almost gentle.

"A fact for which we should be grateful."

Rumple huffs and waves his hand dismissively.

"So, wait," Emma narrows her eyes, trying to will Hades' words back to her, "that's why you're all here? Because you have unfinished business, right?"

"Oh she catches on!" grumbles Rumplestiltskin.

Milah ignores him, nodding eagerly.

"This is the inbetween, the land where those of us who cannot rest easy must come to earn our peace."

"Earn it?"

"Or accept it. Not everybody here is a villain."

Something about the way she says it makes Emma squint.

"But you… you are?"

Milah lets out a shuddering sigh.

"That depends on who you ask. In life I found that things were rarely that clear-cut."

Emma side-eyes Rumpestiltskin, "Sometimes, yeah. Not always." She flicks her attention back to the other woman, "so you're here because of… him?" she jerks a thumb at Rumple, who rolls his eyes in mock offence.

"He wouldn't dare flatter himself so."

Emma backs away slightly, because no matter how friendly she may seem Emma is painfully aware that it's Milah's name tattooed on Killian's arm. Milah whose murder he has dedicated centuries to avenge. Milah who was his first mate and his first love. Emma hasn't really had anything to call her own for so much of her life, she's no stranger to the green eyed monster that rears up in her chest and paints a bullseye on the dark-haired woman's head.

She doesn't want to fight, but by god she will.

Milah seems to read her mind, eyes wide and honest as she takes Emma's hands gently in her own.

"Nor am I here for Killian, Emma. Our story was over a long time ago. I would, though, be pleased to see his new story have a happier ending."

Emma swallows the monster back down and tries to smile.

"Bae has no unfinished business with me," Milah continues, "that is true. But that isn't to say I have none with him."

She gestures at her outfit – bodywarmer and jeans – and the crossing guard sign discarded at her feet that Emma had failed to notice.

"I abandoned my son," she continues, "and I died without ever making that up to him…"

"That wasn't your fault!" Emma interrupts, scowling at Rumplestiltskin.

"No," Milah soothes, "No, perhaps the manner of my death was not of my choosing. But I did choose to leave him. And I can never have peace or his forgiveness until I have paid penance for it."

Emma eyes the stick at their feet with disdain.

"By being a… crossing guard?"

Milah shrugs.

"We come from cruel worlds, Emma, there's many a lonely child here. I do my little bit to care for them, to keep them safe, and one day perhaps I will have earned the right to see my boy again."

This time it's Emma who clings to Milah a little tighter.

"He'd forgive you. He's already forgiven you, I'm sure of it, wherever- wherever he is."

"You're a kind woman, Emma Swan. I'm glad he had you."

"This is terribly touching, ladies, but I was under the impression we were supposed to be on some sort of rescue mission? Although if you've quite given up on the idea I am ready to leave at your earliest convenience."

The clock face glows dolefully at her. Day two, 6am. Time's wasting. Rumple swings his pocket watch with an obnoxious little smirk.

"Speaking of rescue missions, what have you actually been doing out here? Have you found anything? Do you know anything that can help us find him?"

Rumplestiltskin taps his chin with one long finger, as if considering his options.

"What's it wor-" he begins, but Milah snatches up her pole and jabs him hard in the stomach.

"Are you telling me you haven't even seen him?" she asks, gobsmacked.

Rumplestiltskin wheezes.

"No," Emma bites her lip to keep the tremor from her voice, "no we arrived last night and there were hell beasts and sociopathic teenagers and y'know, Satan, and I don't even know where to look because I tried the docks and I got kidnapped by the devil or something and I don't know where he is or if he's okay or…"

"I know where he is," Milah looks bemused, and Emma tries to ignore the thundering of her heart in her ears, "he's not out here, so he must be at home."

"But the Jolly…" Emma protests; Milah shushes her (much more gently than she had Rumple).

"Not the Jolly, Emma. _Home_." She gives her an encouraging little nod.

"How…" Emma shakes her head, which is suddenly full of cotton wool, "how do you know? How do you know who I am or who Henry is or any of this?"

Milah just shrugs.

"Does it matter?"

"No. No I suppose not."

Milah grabs her hand one last time, tighter this time, and her face is too intense and too close.

"There are more things happening here than you can understand Emma. Don't forget that. This isn't Storybrooke. You're not the sheriff here. You don't make the rules."

Emma nods, tugging her hand free as Rumplestiltskin taps at his watch face, his lips curling.

 _Tick tock._

Emma leaves them, statues in the red-grey morning light. Her skin crawls, but she doesn't look back.

* * *

She'd started at a run, but as the house grows ever larger on the horizon her pace slows and slows until she's approaching the battered fence line practically on her tiptoes, her breath caught in her throat. All those childhood days of wishing for a home and a family _just for her_ and yet it's still the most terrifying thing she's ever had. Or nearly had, anyway.

It was an imposing place even back in Storybrooke, and the peeling paintwork and slight tilt to the tower aren't helping. It reminds her of an illustration in one of the books she'd lifted as a kid – the haunted house waiting for a visitor to devour.

There's some irony there, if she lets herself think about it too deeply. So she doesn't. Instead she forces trembling legs to carry her up the stairs to the porch, lifting a fist to knock and then second-guessing herself because isn't this her house? Who knocks on their own front door?

"Come on," she growls to herself, "come on, come -"

The door swings open. Her world shatters and mends in an instant.

"Emma?"

He sounds the same, oh god he sounds the same and it's been a day, or two, or forever, but she was so, so afraid she'd forget. Her hands swing out to clutch at his jacket without any conscious thought on her part, but she stills them before they reach him. Last time she touched him he was cold, and she couldn't bear it. Not again. He blinks down at her, and she tries to smile, but there's something wrong. Something terribly not right with the way he's looking at her.

"What are you doing here?"

He sounds genuinely perplexed, which would be funny if it wasn't so sad.

"What do you think I'm doing here?"

She stares into his too blue eyes and sees nothing but the reflection of banking fog. Her breath catches in her throat.

"Killian?"

She plucks at the edge of his jacket with trembling fingers, still avoiding his skin like it might burn her. He shakes his head slowly, but the fog doesn't clear.

"Did something happen? Are you…" he stops, tongue slipping out to catch the last word before it escapes. Then, again, almost plaintive, "why are you here, Emma?"

"I'm – we're – here to save you."

"Save me," he seems to be considering the idea, his expression almost dreamlike.

Emma tries to smile but it sits uncomfortably just at the edge of her mouth.

"Well," she shrugs one shoulder, "I'm the saviour, aren't I?"

His expression twitches, just a tiny bit. A spark of something. Hope, maybe.

"We all came, Killian, my parents, Regina and Robin, Henry…"

"The boy," he wets his lips and for a moment his eyes flash clear, "It's not safe, he's not safe…"

She shushes him, hand sliding from cuff to elbow.

"It's okay, he's with my parents and Regina, he's fine."

He just stares at her with those beautiful blank eyes and god she'd thought her heart couldn't break any more. What a way to be proven wrong.

"What's wrong?" she asks, ending on a hiccup as she chokes on the tears she's swallowing.

It's a stupid question, so stupid, they're in the Underworld because she turned him into the thing he hated most then murdered him with his own damn sword, what's _right_ with this picture, and she waits for the full sarcasm and eyebrows reply. Wills it. Instead he lays his hand on her cheek (it's warm, god _it's warm_ ) and she can't be sure who's shaking more. Their mutual intake of breath seems to suck all the oxygen from the air and it hangs heavy, waiting, watching.

"It hurts when I touch you."

She forces herself to step away even though every cell in her body is screaming closer. He chases after her with a wobbly little step.

"It hurts more when I don't."

He runs his thumb across her cheekbone, his brow furrowing as if he's trying to remember a word on the tip of his tongue. Emma tilts her head into his touch.

"I'm sorry," it's barely a whisper, but it's enough to still the gentle strokes of his thumb, "I'm so, so sorry."

"Don't be sorry. It doesn't matter, not anymore. I'm where I should be now. I've paid my price and I'll do my penance. This is how it should be."

The words come out, but the tone's all wrong. It's as if he's reading blind from an auto-cue.

"What did he do to you?"

He shakes his head at her, confused. She'll take confusion. It's better than that awful blankness.

"I don't follow."

"You," she pokes him in the chest, maybe a little harder than she intended, "you never just accept things, you never give up, you feel everything too deeply…"

"I don't," still confused, "I don't feel anything."

Emma grits her teeth against the wail she can feel rising out of her chest. She wants to shake him. She wants to shake herself. She wants her mom.

"Wait."

She hadn't realised she'd been moving away, backing down the steps like a cornered animal, until he catches up with her reaching out for her waist with his hand and twirling a blonde curl around his hook. (She's irrationally pleased he's still got the hook). He stares at her hair for a long moment and then his eyes fly wide open as they meet hers.

"He came to me with a proposition, told me that he would allow me to earn redemption if I gave up my hate," he tightens his grip on her waist, his voice suddenly a growl, "then he tried to take what we had."

The fog clears from his eyes, fully and finally, and Emma presses herself closer so that they stand toe-to-toe, her arms moving so that he can run her fingers through his hair, his both wrapping around her waist.

"No one," she says, and it's as fervent a promise as she's ever made, "will _ever_ be able to take what we have."

She kisses him, hard, and he kisses back harder, all teeth and tongues and it's not soft or romantic in the least, but magic doesn't much care about that. It bursts forth from where they're joined, flashing white behind their closed eyelids, and thunders away from them as golden topped waves on a stormy sea.

The Underbrooke sky bruises dark then suddenly splits, rain rushing through the guttering of the old house and bouncing off the sidewalk. Killian smiles and raises an eyebrow.

"It would appear our love has manifested itself rather damply, love."

Emma laughs wildly, clinging on to him as the downpour washes the tear tracks from her face. Killian leans forward to rest his forehead on hers.

"I forgive you."

They stay like that with red-rimmed eyes and secret smiles, swaying on the spot and breathing each other's air, and it rains as if it's never rained before.

(It's never rained, before.)


	5. What You Wish For

**_AN: Thank you to my new faves and follows! I appreciate you more than you could know! Do feel free to drop me a review if you like, I always reply and I don't bite ;) This chapter ends a bit... weirdly? I dunno, it should have continued on but as each chapter is getting longer and longer I thought I'd better cut it here! Hope you enjoy anyway._ **

* * *

**Chapter Five**

 **What You Wish For**

* * *

 _ **"Times are bad. Children no longer obey their parents, and everyone is writing a book." - Cicero**_

* * *

There's a rumble in the distance. It might be thunder, or a hell beast, or just the blood pounding through Emma's veins. She can't find it in her to care, wrapped up as she is in Killian's arms. They'd half staggered over to the porch swing, neither willing to let go of the other even for a moment, and curled up with their legs entangled and Emma's head tucked neatly into its favourite spot under Killian's chin. Her fingers brush over the badge Killian wears on his belt.

"You know, I turned the last guy that impersonated me into a garden ornament."

Killian smiles into her hair.

"He tasked me with keeping the peace. It would have been remiss of me not to channel you, and perhaps it was a way to keep you close, even though…"

"Even though you couldn't miss me," she lifts her chin slightly and presses a kiss to his jaw, "I'm kind of glad. I think I missed you enough for both of us."

"Whatever he said, it won't be as easy as he's promised."

"Somebody once told me that they'd never seen me fail."

"Somebody very intelligent, no doubt, who loves you very much."

"They do."

Another kiss, open-mouthed to the side of his unblemished neck.

"Emma," he groans, half frustrated, half pleading.

She takes pity and lifts herself away just enough that she can look up and meet his eyes.

"It doesn't matter how difficult it is. None of it matters. We're going to go home and be together and everything's going to be perfect, you'll see."

Killian lifts his hand from her back momentarily to scrub at his eyes.

"Swan, I don't wish to upset you further, but I am dead. I won't be going anywhere without quite the struggle."

She knows he's right, it feels like her whole life is struggle, but she won't allow herself to think about it right now. She's skilled enough at building walls that she can lock the fear that she just found him to lose him yet again away, just for now. Just for long enough to smile up at him and card her fingers through his hair.

"Are you telling me you don't love me enough to defeat the lord of death? You're just going to hang around here as what, the Sheriff of Limbo?"

He schools his features into an expression of mild offence, and she thinks he might tease her right back, but instead his voice is low and serious and does interesting things to her hormones.

"If love alone were enough I'd never have left you in the first instance, you know that."

"I do." She does, and that's a first, "I know you can do it."

"That's a lot of faith you're putting on me Swan."

He throws his head back and sighs, but she can tell he's starting to relax, to believe, to have hope. It's a relief, because hope speeches really are far more her mom's thing than hers. She leans in for another kiss and smiles against his scruffy cheek.

"It's not really faith if I know it's true, is it?"

He pulls away, again, and a girl could get offended really, but only to wrap his hand around hers.

"There is nothing I won't do for you," he's terribly earnest, squeezing a bit too hard, and Emma thinks that maybe, somehow, someway, he still doesn't think she realises just how much he loves her.

Not even after he died for her.

Twice.

"I know," she imbues the simple words with as much feeling as she can and wills him to understand, "I love you."

His smile is a bit blurry around the edges.

"I love you, too."

"Congratulations! You will surely be sickening us all for eternity!"

Killian snaps to his feet, only his grip on her hand prevents Emma from sliding off his lap and onto the porch floor.

" _You_!" he snarls, and Emma can almost feel the rage vibrating through him.

Rumplestiltskin stands at the bottom of the steps under an enormous umbrella. It doesn't escape Emma's notice that his previously battered suit is now perfect again, right down to the pocket square. He gives Killian a snide little smile.

"Death has not affected your powers of observation, I see."

"I'll kill you," Killian takes a single step forward. He doesn't sound angry any more, but the calmness is somehow much more frightening, "I will cut you down where you stand and leave your bones for the beasts."

Emma is aware that she should probably do something to stop him. She doesn't.

"Now, Captain," Rumplestiltskin doesn't move, "we both know that's not going to happen. You couldn't kill me when you _were_ me."

She feels the way his body goes rigid at the reminder of what he was ( _what I turned him into_ ), and almost without realising it she's angled her body between the two men.

"Killian! Killian don't!"

All three of their heads snap round to see Milah bolting up the road, drenched to the skin, then skidding to a halt in a puddle on their front lawn. Emma stays in her defensive position and locks her fingers with Killian's.

"Milah," it's more of a sigh than a word. Emma hates herself for noticing.

"You mustn't," Milah flings her arm out, pointing her crossing guard sign at Rumplestiltskin, "you've let revenge ruin more lifetimes than most people could dream of. Don't embrace it here. If you allow vengeance to take you over here it's all you'll have left."

Emma feels rather than sees the heavy way he swallows.

"He'll have me," she tells the other woman, "he'll always have me."

Milah looks stricken. Rumplestiltskin, pleased.

"Listen to the saviour now, advocating murder," he almost crows, "whatever will your mother say?"

Emma draws herself up taller.

"That all sins can be forgiven if somebody loves you," Killian's hand squeezes hers even tighter, if that's possible, "but it won't matter, because he's not going to kill you."

Killian grunts as if he's about to disagree, but Emma continues regardless.

"He's a better man than you, Gold. Better than you have ever been or ever _will_ be."

Milah flicks frightened eyes between Rumplestiltskin's stoic form and Emma's. Emma can't really blame her; when Milah had said much the same thing she'd lost her heart and her life for the privilege.

"Why are you with him?" Killian asks her, his voice hardened beyond simple curiosity, "How can you stand there with him after what he did to you?"

Milah shakes her head, softly, and drops her arm so that she can lean gently against the pole she carries.

"Killian, he killed me. If I've learnt anything here, it's that we all die."

Killian laughs harshly, "So what? So you've _forgiven_ him?"

"I'm not in the business of seeking forgiveness," snorts Rumplestiltskin, but Emma remembers how she'd found them together, how he'd sought his ex-wife out, and she wonders.

Milah, to her credit, looks horrified.

"Gods no, never. He let my son fall through a portal to another realm, he maimed the man I loved, he has tortured innocents in the name of his own power. I'll never forgive him for any of that." She looks directly at Emma when she speaks next, "But what will vengeance and hate bring me other than more vengeance and hate in return? You should know it won't bring back the dead."

"You were always the cleverer of us," Killian says roughly.

Milah smiles.

"And why break the habit of a lifetime because of a little thing like death?"

"Emma! _Emma_!"

They all jump slightly at Snow's voice, too distracted to have noticed her and David splashing through the puddles towards them.

Rumplestiltskin looks to the sky in false gratitude.

"Oh thank the gods I thought we'd be patting ourselves on the back till Hades saw fit to remove our spines."

Snow reaches them first, David panting up behind her, stopping in front of Killian with a smile that Emma can only describe as 'beatific'.

"Killian, you're okay, oh I'm so glad – "

She launches herself at him, knocking him back with a strangled, "Oof!"

Killian pats her back slightly awkwardly with the hook.

"Thank you, your Highness. I am rather glad to see you too."

Emma smiles as she watches Killian and her father nod to each other over her mother's head.

"We can't seem to get rid of you," sighs David, but she's not fooled. She can tell Killian isn't either, by his beaming smile and misty eyes.

"Nobody could fault your efforts, Dave."

Snow finally releases Killian, smoothing his jacket as she steps away in a way that makes Emma's heart ache.

"Is Henry with you?"

She looks around as if Killian and Emma might be hiding him under the porch swing. Emma's heart, so recently lightened, fills back up with dread.

"No, no I left him back at the cabin."

They turn to face Rumple as one, but he only shakes his head.

"I have not seen the boy since he was sleeping."

 _Not a lie_ , Emma's superpower tells her. She feels suddenly, violently sick.

"Oh god."

Snow wrings her hands and her smile drops away, but she tries to keep her voice light and hopeful.

"He's probably fine, I mean I'm sure he's fine, Regina and Robin are looking for him they've probably found him already."

Emma tries to take deep breaths, tries to keep her head from swimming, but all she can think of is what Robin had said back in Storybrooke:

 _A life for a life, a life for a life, a life for a – no no no no_

Milah spins on her heel, calling over her shoulder as she heads for the gate.

"We've got to find him, come on."

She's the last person who Emma expects to speak, and she's clearly not alone as Killian, Rumple and Snow all speak up at once.

"You're coming?"

"Milah."

"You're Henry's other grandma?"

She turns back, but carries on walking backwards, clearly determined to go whether they follow her or not.

"I left Bae. I was selfish, and I left him. I won't leave Henry. I'm coming."

She meets Emma's eyes, and Emma sees the steel and fire that Killian had fallen in love with. The devilry that had so attracted Emma to this woman's son. Emma sets her teeth in a grim smile and, still holding tightly to Killian's hand, storms past her.

"Hurry up then."

* * *

Being a hero kind of sucks.

Henry pulls at the ropes binding his wrists more in hope than expectation – he's paid enough attention in his sailing lessons to know when he's well and truly scuppered by a knot. He watches his captor sashay up and down the alleyway and gives her his best Regina Mills death stare impression. He's had thirteen years to learn it, so he's sure it's pretty good. Cruella, sadly, isn't paying him much mind at all so it's kind of wasted. Instead she seems to be focused on wearing a hole onto the asphalt and mumbling to herself. Henry kind of wishes she still had the gun.

It had felt like a good idea at the time, sneaking off. He could tell Emma wasn't happy with sitting around and snoozing, not when Killian was out there somewhere with god knows what happening to him, and, well, neither was he. It's not that he begrudges his other mom her time to sort out whatever weird relationship drama she's having with her own evil mom, because clearly this is pretty much a once in a lifetime chance to get some answers and closure. Henry knows a little bit about wanting both of those things himself. Still, just because he understands it doesn't mean he has to like it. He doesn't like the way Grandpa Gold and Emma were looking at each other either. Sometimes being the kid means the adults forget you're not actually a baby anymore. You see stuff, you hear stuff.

You know what darkness looks like.

He can see it in Cruella now, even though she's nothing like he remembers from before. Her hair is all white and wispy and her fur coat is shredded in places, the ends dragging through the fish guts spilling from the dumpster in the dockside alleyway. (He hopes they're fish guts anyway. This is a pretty weird place.) Even her car, as far as he can tell her most precious possession even now, had been scraped and bumped and the lining of the trunk she's tossed him into had been ripped and filthy.

Yeah, the underworld sure has done a number on Cruella. Which makes her depressingly easy capture of him even more embarrassing. His moms are going to kill him.

"My moms are going to kill you," he tells her conversationally.

Cruella laughs, long and high enough to set Henry's teeth on edge.

"Again!?" she shakes her finger at Henry as if he's a recalcitrant puppy, "Darling there are far, far worse things than death."

She stops pacing and smiles at him, her skin stretching a little too far back over her teeth and it makes her look uncomfortably like something Henry would shoot on his Xbox.

She winks and the creep factor intensifies. "After all, I should know."

There's a sudden crash – thunder, maybe? - and a hot blast of air that sends Cruella toppling to her knees amongst the filth and guts. It starts to rain heavily, big fat raindrops that run off her nose and drip onto Henry's jeans as she crawls forward and over him.

"You're the reason I'm here, Henry. You're keeping me here. The little boy I couldn't kill, and _oh_ _darling_ I wanted to kill you so badly. Wring your cheeky little neck! But I couldn't! I died at the hands of your sainted mother like a common animal! And do you know why?"

"Because – because of the author?" he hates the way his voice shakes, but her breath is hot on his face and he feels sick and this was a really, really awful plan.

"Yes," she croons, "because of the author. But he's dead now isn't he, dear Isaac, and I know who the new author is. The new author can get me out of here. The new author can _help_ me."

She runs a finger down his cheek.

"Don't you want to help me Henry?"

Henry shudders.

"Please. Please just leave me alone. I can't help you."

"I believe the lad asked you to leave him be."

The voice is a deep male rumble, and Cruella's face drops as the edge of something, a crowbar maybe, settles against her temple. Henry peers up at his rescuer through his sopping wet fringe, but can't see much thanks to the rain and his own shivers. He doesn't recognise the voice as _such_ , but there's something familiar about the timbre, the accent. Something safe. He takes a deep breath and tries to struggle to his feet again.

"No!" Cruella's wheedling turns desperate, "we're old friends aren't we Henry? Old friends!"

"That's enough."

The man uses the hand still holding the crowbar to press Cruella down into the wet asphalt. She lets out an animalistic whimper.

"Can you stand, lad?"

Henry shakes his head.

"She's tied me up," he says, flinching with embarrassment, "I'm normally good at knots, but…"

The man laughs warmly.

"Just as well I'm here then. I'm something of an expert at them."

He more or less tosses Cruella to the side as he reaches over and pulls Henry to his feet.

"I suggest you make yourself scarce, madam. You'll find no succour for what ails you here."

Cruella hisses and spits like an angry cat, but the man just watches her with calm, steady eyes. There's something commanding in the way he holds himself, even Cruella must see it, because she skitters off down the alleyway and disappears into the rain with no more than a wordless, angry screech.

Henry takes the opportunity to push his hair out of his eyes and really look at his saviour. He is tall and round-faced with curly hair and eyes that look upon Henry with as much kindness as they had Cruella with disdain.

Henry rubs at his sore wrists.

"Thanks, she had me pretty good there."

"That she did boy," the man frowns, "there's many here who won't accept their fate. It drives them all mad, in the end."

Henry scoffs.

"She was always mad, believe me."

Suddenly remembering his manners, he thrusts out his hand.

"I'm Henry Mills."

The man shakes it very formally, heels snapping together as he straightens up.

"Liam Jones. I'm pleased I could be of assistance, Master Mills."

Henry gapes at him.

"Li- Liam? _Captain_ Liam Jones? Captain Jones of _The Jewel of the Realm_?"

Liam Jones raises an eyebrow, and _holy crap how had he not seen it before?_

"I once had that honour, yes."

Only the intense teenage need to remain cool at all times stops Henry from jumping up and down on the spot and clapping his hands with glee.

"Oh my God!" He squeaks, then swallows hard before continuing, "You're him! My d- Killian has told me so many stories about you I just…"

Liam goes sheet white.

"Killian?"

"Killian, your brother," something occurs to Henry, "you, you do remember him, don't you?"

Something flashes across Liam's face, but it's gone before Henry can analyse it.

"Aye," Liam's chokes as if he has a throat full of salt water, "Aye, I remember him. He's dead."

Henry waves it off, "Nearly everybody's dead here. That's why I'm here, to rescue him, because he shouldn't be here and I think if I can get to this house then I can use the pen – my pen – to save him and get us home…"

"Wait, wait," Liam holds up a hand, "you came here, to the Underworld, to rescue my brother, and you did this alone?"

Henry shuffles awkwardly.

"Well, no. I came with my family. Who are going to be really _really_ mad at me."

That earns him an eye roll.

"Let me guess, you ran off. And Killian is – what, to you, exactly."

"That's a bit complicated," says Henry with a slight smile.

Liam gestures to the entrance of the alleyway.

"Perhaps you could endeavour to explain it to me when we go off in search of your family."

"Walk and talk," Henry says as he follows Liam out of the alley and then trips after him down the docks, "I like that plan."

He tries to explain it in simple terms, but by the time the sea captain and star-struck teenager make it to the centre of town Liam is pinching the bridge of his nose and wearing an expression of great consternation.

"So your mother is my brother's true love, and your other mother is the ex-Evil Queen of a kingdom that she stole from your grandmother who is the mother of your other mother even though she's no older than your first mother."

"It sounds like a lot of mothers when you put it like that," agrees Henry, "but yeah, more or less…"

"Henry!"

Regina is storming towards them. Henry stops dead and tries to sneak behind Liam. Liam sighs knowingly.

"And this would be one of them, I presume?"

Henry goes to hold his hands out, placating, before spotting the rope burns on his wrists and swiftly changing his mind.

"Where. Have you. Been?" Regina runs frantic hands over his shoulders and down his arms, whilst Robin watches Liam warily, bow drawn.

"I'm sorry, mom. I just couldn't keep sitting around – I wanted to _do_ something."

"The only thing you're going to do is get yourself killed."

"My mom went off."

"Your mom is the saviour Henry! You're just a – "

"I'm the author, I'm not just a kid anymore!"

"You're my _son_ , and your mom's son, and," Regina pauses, screwing her nose up slightly as if she finds her next words intensely distasteful, "what exactly do you think Killian would say if he knew you were putting yourself in danger?"

Henry's face crumples, crestfallen. Liam grumbles something under his breath.

"And who are you?" Robin doesn't lower his weapon as he address Liam, clearly suspicious. Regina swings to face him, and Liam salutes smartly.

"Captain Liam Jones, your Majesty. At your service."

"Thank you." Regina takes a deep breath, "For keeping him safe."

"I do what I can, your Majesty, I have little patience for those who would harm children."

"Henry!"

This time the cry comes from the other end of the street, over Henry's shoulder. Liam quirks an eyebrow at him as he flings himself towards the sound.

"Ah, the other mother I presume?"

Emma is jogging down the road flanked by all of his grandparents, a woman he doesn't know, and clinging to her hand for dear life is -

"Killian!"

Henry barrels past a stiff-backed, frozen Liam and straight into Killian. It takes a moment - maybe because he has to untangle his hand from Emma's, maybe just from the shock of nearly six feet of overenthusiastic teenage boy hitting him at full pelt- but slowly Killian's good hand comes round to squeeze Henry's shoulder tightly, the hook hovering somewhere behind his head. Killian sighs, a sound of pure relief, and mumbles something repeatedly that Henry thinks _might_ be _my boy_. Henry himself lets out an uncontrolled little noise that he thinks _might_ be a sob. (He will never admit to it in a million years.)

When he steps back they are both beaming ear-to-ear and neither of them are mentioning their watery eyes.

"Look who I found! Well, he found me really because Cruella's here and she's totally insane and – "

"Liam." Killian seems to deflate like a balloon.

Liam turns, hands clenched into fists at his sides. "Hello, Killian. You look well. For a dead man."

He glares daggers at the hook, apparently unable to meet his long-lost brother's eyes. Killian shifts from foot to foot and moves as if to hide his appendage from his brother's snide gaze, before pursing his lips and scratching behind his ear instead.

"I didn't – I didn't know you were here."

"I keep to myself."

"Well. This is awkward." Robin mutters.

"I hate to interrupt such a loving reunion," Regina drawls, "but since we've found the pirate, shouldn't we be worrying about part two of this insane enterprise?"

"We do need an exit plan," David agrees, eyeing the fallen clock with unease.

"We're never much good at those," sighs Snow.

Regina rubs a hand down her face, exhaustion, relief and the desire to launch a fireball at someone vying for prominence.

Liam turns back to her, his relief once he's no longer having to look at Killian painfully apparent.

"Young Prince Henry here –"

("Prince – _Prince_ Henry."

"Don't laugh!"

"It is true, you know."

"Well okay yeah, but it's not like – seriously?"

"Well there's not much need for titles in Storybrooke Emma, your 'revolution' saw to that."

"I apologise if I've caused you consternation, your highness."

"Your Highness is my mother, I prefer Emma.")

"I prefer your Highness!" Henry insists as the others argue semantics.

Liam gives Henry a little bow and a wink.

"Well, his Highness thought that there may be some help available at a house nearby."

Henry grabs hold of Regina's elbow and nods furiously.

"The apprentice's house. It's gotta be here, right? Everything else is here. And there might be a pen there or maybe a book like my book that can help us figure out how to get home."

"Clever boy," the woman who's following them speaks, quiet and slightly broken, "you're so like your father. My Bae."

"Grandma?" His smile is a fragile thing, really. Because she's here but his dad's not (and maybe his _dad_ is, but it feels a like betrayal to think like that right now), and because he's not an actual idiot. He likes Liam, weird as he's acting with Killian, he wants to like his grandma. Wants to know her. But he can't. They can't come with him, they'll just be more people he's lost before he can remember having them.

His grandma smiles, keeping it bright for his sake probably.

"So it would seem."

Henry turns to his _other_ grandma, the one who doubles as his school teacher and is smiling at him fit-to-burst.

"You know," he tells her "If I ever have to do another family tree at school? I'm going to need more than one worksheet."

His grandpa (not Gold, Gold is standing off to one side as if he's trying very hard to pretend he doesn't know any of them) gives him a manly sort of shoulder slap and then leaves his hand there, steering Henry in the direction of where the apprentice's house _should_ be.

"You heard the author. Let's go."

Henry allows himself to be propelled along, only half aware of the way Liam and Killian seem to tip-toe around each other and the way his newly discovered grandma's eyes follow him like a hawk, until David lets go, and then Henry Mills leads his family through the underworld. A hero.

He's not sure if he's supposed to like it as much as he does.


	6. Styx and Stones

**AN: Still not mine, still very grateful for all your follows and faves and to those of you who've taken the time to review - extra special love! This was a hard one, I've never really written action as such? So uh, I hope it's alright!  
**

 **By the by, this chapter title is probably the thing I am proudest of in this whole fic because I am a loser with a pun fetish :D**

* * *

 **Chapter Six**

 **Styx and Stones**

* * *

" _ **We have only a little time to please the living, but all eternity to love the dead." – Sophocles**_

* * *

Emma clings to Killian the entire way to the apprentice's house.

She holds his hand as they march down the street, tucks herself under his chin as Robin commits trespass at the Mayoral mansion to fetch Regina a fresh coat. (There's blood congealed in the cuffs of her old one. _It's_ _not mine_ , she'd said and no-one had much wanted to inquire further). He squeezes her hand, and kisses her hair, and is generally as unwilling to be parted from her as she is from him, but Emma can see the way he gazes longingly at Liam's back as he leads their rag-tag little crew beyond the town limits.

He doesn't look back.

Even when they reach the house (empty, thankfully, whatever the apprentice's business had been in Storybrooke he'd evidently finished it before his demise) and begin the room-by-room search for Henry's pen or anything else that might help them escape this place, Liam is always searching the corner furthest from his brother. Occasionally he addresses Emma or David or even Henry, but by the time night falls and they find themselves hunting the crowded bookshelves of the apprentice's library he has avoided even the risk of eye contact.

"This is ridiculous," Killian whispers in her ear as they dig, together, through the drawers of a bureau, "I'm going to speak to him."

She smiles slightly and nods, and Killian takes a deep breath before slipping his hand from hers, kissing her on the cheek, and marching up to his brother.

"Are you planning to speak to me directly at any point, Captain?"

Liam stops his hunt through the bookshelves and stands bolt upright. He doesn't face Killian, rather he stares at a spot some feet above his head. His face is pale and he appears to be taking very deep breaths.

"And what would you have me say, Lieutenant? Mutiny, Piracy, Treason, _Murder_. How many of your crimes are you looking for me to absolve you of, exactly?"

Killian's face, previously determined with just a _touch_ of mutiny around the mouth, crumples. His voice drops, soft and low; a bit desperate.

"I'm not looking for absolution…"

That would appear to be exactly the wrong thing to say, because Liam's face turns beet red and his knuckles crack as he forces his hands into fists.

"Just as well, because you shall be sore pressed to find it here!"

He's all rage and pain and spittle, his voice cracking as he barks out the words.

Emma both wants to be here, to witness this for Killian, to comfort him, and to run far, far away. It doesn't escape her notice that the rest of her family appear to be edging for the door.

"Liam, Liam calm down. You know this is not all as it seems." Milah holds a palm out to him whilst turning to address Emma, "Hades allows us to see things, on occasion. To watch over those we've left behind." She turns back to Liam who has started pacing the length of the room, "But he only shows us what he wants us to see, Liam you know this!"

She may as well be speaking to the bureau for all the good it does.

"You murdered _our_ father, Killian. _Ours_. Whatever he was, he wasn't just yours to punish. I was left, too. Left with you to raise and no earthly way of doing so, and a markedly terrible job I did of it too!"

Killian looks around frantically, his jaw muscles working overtime.

"That's not true, you were the best, the very best."

Liam stops his frenetic pace in order stop dead directly in front of Killian. For a brief horrible moment Emma thinks he's going to hit his brother, but instead he settles for waving his finger right in his face. He looks so angry that Emma can quite easily imagine steam pouring from his ears – she even thinks she can hear the high-pitched whistle of a tea-kettle.

"Ah, so that is why you took to the life of a reprobate before my body had even hit the ocean floor, is it? Because I had instilled such good morals in you, such gentlemanly behaviour!"

"I was doing what I thought was right! The king was corrupt I –" It's no longer clear if Killian is trying to convince Liam or himself.

"And did you make a difference, hmm? Fighting his corruption with your own? Did you rest easier at night for knowing all your thievery and whoring was in a noble cause?"

"Hey!" Milah and Emma shout as one.

The tea-kettle sound intensifies in pitch and Emma wonders if it is her imagination of if the older Jones brother's head might just pop off at any moment.

"My apologies, ladies." Liam spares them a half-bow, "I will give you the credit of the present company's exception."

Killian looks bereft. Emma wants to comfort him, tell Liam exactly where he can stuff his judgements (and she can see the same urge to step in and argue the toss written across David's face) but her feet are frozen the spot and her throat is too dry to speak.

"I have changed," Killian barely manages to whisper, "I have tried to be a better man…"

Liam snorts derisively and the high pitched keening intensifies. Emma sees Snow wince.

"You are a liar and a blackguard! You said yourself that people don't change, Killian! You said that to our father right before you ran him through!"

Liam is practically vibrating with rage, Killian's wide eyes are fixed on him, Emma's on Killian. The others seem more perturbed by the way the very air around them seems to be screaming.

"Guys!" Robin yells, "What the hell is that noise?!"

"Keep very still," Milah whispers hoarsely, clutching her crossing guard pole like a staff.

Liam pulls a crowbar from his jeans and slowly, subtly moves so that he's directly between Killian and wherever the noise seems to be emanating from. (Everywhere, god it's coming from _everywhere._ )

The noise grows louder and higher than she'd even thought possible, and just as Emma's about to stop reaching for her gun and cover her ears instead it stops. She takes one breath. Two.

 _Slam!_

All the air in the room seems to leave and then return in a whoosh of noise and thick, viscous darkness. Darkness that _moves_.

It takes maybe a tenth of a second for each of them to bolt for the nearest cover, the urge to flee triggered by something ancient and carnal in their collective sub-consciousness.

Emma dares to look back over her shoulder as she bodily heaves Killian and Henry behind the nearest piece of furniture.

"Jesus Christ!"

Something is coalescing out of the shadows, arms and legs and massive _fucking_ teeth winding their way into existence in front of her terrified eyes. Emma manages only a brief glimpse of its gaping maw and glowing red stare before she's crouched behind a sofa, gun drawn.

"Yeah," David gulps from his position in front of Snow who he's pushed partially under the billiard table, "you know those hell beasts we mentioned?"

Emma grimaces at him.

"Don't let them grab you!" Snow begs. "If they grab you, you're done for."

"Stay where you are," Liam commands, all captain, and Emma would probably obey him even if the thought of moving didn't have her shitting herself, "we've got this."

"In what way, exactly, do we _have this_?" Regina hisses.

"Oh," Milah gets to her feet with a devilish little smile, "this way."

She twists the sign from her pole, and from it she withdraws a deadly looking rapier.

"Ready, Captain?"

Liam grins and it makes him look young and a little unhinged.

"Ladies first."

Milah's answering smile is feral. There's no soft-spoken grandmother remaining, just bloodlust in her eyes and the flush of battle on her cheeks as she launches herself at the shadow beast with a roar.

Liam is hard on her heels his face more restrained but no less determined for it. He swings his crowbar into the swirling darkness of the creature's solar plexus and to Emma's utter astonishment it makes contact, launching the beast back onto its haunches.

"We can hit it?!"

Liam laughs manically, then ducks with a grunt as the creature tries to scoop him up with one massive arm.

Emma tries to scrabble to her feet, but is knocked almost straight back down as Killian throws himself past her. She finds herself holding onto his ankle and tugging for dear life.

"Where are you going?!"

"Where do you _think_?"

His eyes are wild, his whole body straining away from her. This is not the time to be jealous, she tells herself. This is the time to be mad.

" _Unarmed_? I don't think this thing's going to settle down after a nice chat with the sheriff!"

There's a burst of mad laughter from Milah as the monster parries her thrust with what appears to be a crackling bolt of electricity.

"This one's got fire!" she shrieks, joyously.

It frightens Emma, a little. But it also gives her a plan.

"Here," she thrusts her gun into Killian's hand, "You've got six rounds, don't waste 'em."

He stops pulling away from her, "I won't take your weapon, Swan."

The creature launches Liam past them and he hits the wall with a sickening thud. He stands up, cracks his neck, and throws himself back at it. Killian's fingers clench white around the gun.

"Don't worry," Emma catches Regina's eye, who gives her a solid nod of understanding, "you haven't."

("About time!" Liam bellows as Killian throws himself into the melee, and Killian's answering genuine grin is simultaneously the sweetest and most alarming thing she's ever seen, being as they are in the midst of a battle to the death.)

Regina and Emma launch themselves out of hiding together, hands raised, just as Milah flings herself into a near suicidal attack and splits the monster stem to stern. There's a moment of deep breaths all around.

Henry pops up at Emma's right shoulder.

"My grandma is _badass_! That was _ama-_ "

The keening starts up again.

"Oh no."

 _Slam!_

They're all up now as the second creature advances from the opposite side to its fallen ally. Snow and Robin draw and release in tandem; the creature swats at the arrows lodged in whatever the fuck passes for its chest.

Emma feels the burn in her fingertips spark and ignite as Killian lets off two rounds and Liam dashes past, crowbar raised and hollering.

"Cut it off! Keep it against the wall!"

She throws whatever she can manage at its left side, keeping the shadowlike arm against the wall, and chances a look at Regina. Instead of following her lead, though, Regina is looking down at her hands as if she's never seen them before.

"Regina!" Emma grunts at the effort as the beast pulls against the combined efforts of her magic and Liam's crowbar, "A little help!"

"I can't! My magic!"

A pathetic little purple wisp spins from her palm and fades into nothingness.

"It doesn't work!" Rumple skitters from behind the bureau to the better shelter of the now upturned billiard table, "I told you magic here is tricky!"

"Thank you," Regina spits, hefting a chair leg and grimacing, "for the very _specific_ warning."

Emma can feel the vibration of her magic rattling her teeth by the time somebody, Killian or David presumably, manages the perfect head-shot and blasts the creature into shadowy smithereens. She allows it to putter out with a grateful sigh, but then, again:

 _Slam!_

"For the love of – "

This one appears in the centre of the room, splitting the group in two very uneven halves. On one side, Emma, her parents, Killian, Liam, Robin and Regina. On the other, Milah who had been chasing her lost sword across the floor, a cowering Rumplestiltskin, and –

"Henry." It's Snow who speaks. Emma's kind of glad because she's pretty sure she can't, "Henry, keep very still."

Henry gives her his very best _no shit_ look.

Regina's fists clench uselessly.

"Why isn't it attacking?" Robin hisses, bow drawn tight as he looks for a clear shot.

There isn't one. Emma knows that to her very bones.

"Why do you sound so unhappy about it?" growls David as he makes the same pointless trajectory calculations.

"Because it's a _monster_ and it's just _staring_? When is our luck ever that good?"

"It's learnt a lesson from its friends' untimely demise," Liam slides forward to flank Killian, "It's planning to take out the weakest link."

The creature takes two steps towards Henry.

"Gee," Henry hisses out of the corner of his mouth as the creature lifts one shadowy arm towards him, "thanks a lot."

Milah has reached her sword and is gradually creeping to her feet. The hell beast lifts a pointed finger towards Henry just as she lifts her rapier.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you, dearie."

Emma's breath is coming short and her vision is blurring at the edges, and that must be why her eyes are deceiving her, because she's either terrified beyond sense or she's finally gone mad.

Rumplestiltskin has risen from the bower of the billiard table to stand behind the creature, dusting off the sleeves of his jacket as if he hasn't a care in the world.

"See, the thing is," he says conversationally, "I know exactly what you are. You're created from the most desperate of all desperate souls, the ones with no hope, and no dreams of redemption. The ones _he_ controls most completely."

The beast turns to face him, leaving Henry untouched and giving Milah the chance to sneak closer.

"Well, I know a little something about being desperate. I know what it is to embrace the darkness because you've no hope of a brighter future. I could have ended up here, like you - just a pitiful shadow, enslaved and miserable, a monster under the bed used to frighten misbehaving children into being good. But do you know what the difference is between us?"

Rumplestiltskin smiles, baring all his teeth, and Emma is acutely aware of the monster that has always sat just under the façade.

"I _like_ it."

The beast lunges for Rumple and Milah takes quick advantage.

"Duck!"

Henry does as he's told, leaving her a clear swing at the back of the beast's neck. She throws her whole weight behind it, and when the creature collapses and dissipates around her sword, she's left pointing it half an inch from Rumplestiltskin's jugular.

Henry, who is now sitting on the floor between them, looks up at the steel and audibly gulps.

Milah's blood is clearly still up, her chest heaving, gaze locked with Rumplestiltskin's. He, Emma is surprised to note, is standing perfectly calmly despite the sword at his throat. He has no magic either, or he'd have used it. Brave. Or foolish.

"Milah?"

Emma breaks the silence because nobody else seems keen to (and somebody has to because no doubt something else horrifying is just around the corner).

Milah lets out a great shuddering breath.

"Do you know what the real difference is between good and evil, Rumple?"

Rumplestiltskin sways back slightly, fake surprise on his features.

"Did you not hear me? I chose the darkness. I choose it over and over because I _like_ it."

Milah's face darkens, and she runs the sword point from his neck to settle on his left wrist. Henry, clearly sensing bloodshed, scrabbles backwards and out of the way.

Emma reaches blindly for Killian's hook and clings on for dear life.

Milah stares at the sword. Rumple stares at a point somewhere over her head. Everybody else is staring at Milah. Emma thinks that if she were a hell beast then she'd take this as a pretty opportune moment to attack.

"No," Milah semi-whispers, "that's not it. It's about fear. You've always been too afraid to make a better choice. Fear is what creates evil."

She looks up at Rumple with a brilliant smile, spinning her sword and tucking it neatly into her belt with rather more flamboyance than necessary.

"But I am not afraid. Not of you and not of myself. Go free, Rumplestiltskin. You hold no power over me."

"Very noble of you," Rumplestiltskin drawls. "No doubt I should have otherwise found myself, how did your dear lover put it, stuck with the pointy end?"

"Oh, no doubt," Milah practically sashays past Emma, giving the tattered remnants of her latest victim a little nudge with her boot as she does so, "as it turns out, I'm still a pirate."

Killian makes a very odd sound – almost as if he's trying to cover up a cheer with a cough.

Liam scuffs the toe of his boot on the floor, then stares at the ceiling. He appears to be undergoing some sort of uncomfortable inner torment, his eyes squeezing shut before opening only to flick aimlessly around the room.

"Good form there, brother," Killian says softly, still more afraid of Liam's anger than any hell beast, "I have missed fighting alongside you." his voice catches, "Most dreadfully."

Liam clears his throat and blinks suspiciously before turning to Killian with his hands on his hips, crowbar safely tucked back away. He makes a good show of being the disappointed Captain still, with his brow furrowed and his stern expression. It doesn't much fool Emma though. She might not have been a parent all that long in reality, but she recognises that point where furious anger gives way to equally furious love all too well.

"I want it on record that I am still most seriously displeased with my lieutenant."

Killian scratches behind his ear, his hook still firmly in Emma's grasp even as she uses her free arm to tug Henry into her side.

"Well in the interests of full disclosure, I wasn't exactly your lieutenant at the time."

Liam quirks a distinctly unimpressed eyebrow.

"You were still my brother."

Killian sighs.

"And I betrayed your memory. I know that Liam. I knew that in every pitiful moment of my dissolute life, yet it was never enough to stop me. I'm sorry. I am desperately sorry. I cannot change my past."

Liam tilts his head towards Emma.

"But she was. Enough that is."

"Yes. She is."

Killian looks at her as if she's the universe made flesh, and she's pretty sure her blush is hotter than any hellfire Hades could conjure up.

"Well. I am still quite cross." Liam's face creases into a little smile.

"Understandably," says Killian, eyes wide and a little disbelieving.

"I am glad, however, to have had my brother returned to me." He turns to Emma with a half bow, "My thanks, your Highness."

 _Don't thank me_ , she wants to say, _I won't let you keep him_.

"It was nothing to do with me," she says instead, "Killian became a hero on his own."

Liam snorts and rubs at his eyes with the back of his hand.

"That hero's journey we set out on, took a little longer than we thought, didn't it little brother?"

Killian winces.

" _Younger_ brother, which, by the by, is no longer technically true and anyway…"

His words are cut off and Emma loses her grip on him as Liam tugs him into his embrace.

"…it's hardly finished yet." He mumbles into his brother's shoulder.

"It never is," Liam's eyes are squeezed tight shut, "it never, ever is. I have _missed_ you."

Emma watches Killian's shoulders shake, and feels doubt creep in.

"Bravo! Bravo! What a performance all round!"

Hades skips into the library, hands raised in applause. Cora is skulking along behind him, looking withdrawn and not a little guilty.

"Mother." Regina is more resigned than angry, judging by her tone. Cora cannot meet her eyes.

"Ohhh," Hades looks from on Mills woman to the other, lips pursed in an expression of fake contrition, "I'm sorry, have I caused a little family incident? And here I thought we were all getting along so well."

"I brought him here to help you," Cora says, wringing her hands slightly, "I only want to help you, darling."

"Of course you do," says Hades, soothingly, then brighter; "of course she does! She wants to save the only thing she's ever loved!" He waves his hand out expansively to encompass them all, "And who amongst us cannot say the same, eh? That is the point of this little act of attempted larceny is it not?"

Emma scowls, and maybe a little growl escapes because she feels Killian and her father each place a restraining hand on her shoulders.

Hades smiles at her and her bones shudder.

"Emma Swan. We meet again. I see you found your pirate."

"I did," she doesn't let her voice quake even though the way he looks at her frightens her more than any hell beast could, "and we defeated your demons, so now you can let us go."

Hades giggles. Actually giggles.

"Defeated my demons, did you? Is that what you thought you were doing? I didn't set those things on you. I don't control the beasts that wonder this place, I just make them. You brought them here, with all your," he waves a hand vaguely, "dramatics."

Emma shakes her head, choosing not to dwell on that too closely, "Whatever. We defeated them, and now we're going so if you'll excuse us…" She gestures that he ought to think about getting out of her way, "or if you'd rather, I can make you?"

"Hmm," Hades clasps his hands in front of him, "feisty. Now let's think this through. Let's presume that you can get past me – which you cannot, and that you've found your son's precious pen – which you have not. What's next? Get the boy to take you all home?"

She grits her teeth but says nothing.

"Will you split your heart in two here, Emma? Or wait till you're back in the land of the living?" He lifts a finger as if he's just realised something, "Oh wait! Doesn't he have an unhealable wound? Won't he just die over and over and over again, Emma?"

With each word he steps closer.

"Over. And over. And over."

"Stop it!" Killian's voice is as strong as his grip on her shoulder, "You've had your fun. If you intend to keep me here so be it, but don't torture her. She has done you no wrong."

"Oh I beg to differ, Mr Jones," Hades shakes his head sadly, "She has done me many, many wrongs. I have no especial interest in your soul, you may have it for as long as you manage to keep it. I am a generous man. But the _Saviour_ , the Saviour owes me."

"How," Emma shakes her head, "how can I owe you? I've only just got here!"

"I am bored with exposition," Hades sighs, "Be a dear, Cora. Fill her in."

"You keep saving people, Emma. You keep on dragging their souls back to the world of the living, and that is not –"

"Not acceptable!" Hades throws back in, "Once, all right. Twice, well, I'm not a _monster_. But by the time you're healing up our dear friend the thief over there," he gestures to Robin, who winces, "well, I start taking it a little personally."

Cora side-eyes him, before continuing, "Ever since you returned to Storybrooke and broke the curse, people have been cheating death time and time again."

"And what do I say about cheaters, Cora dear!"

She purses her lips in distaste, "Cheaters never win."

Hades nods.

"It's not fair."

Emma gapes at him for a moment, her brain whirring furiously.

"I didn't know, though. I didn't know the rules. Surely that counts for something? If you're so interested in being fair?"

He raises an eyebrow.

"You want to start afresh, as it were?"

"Can I?"

Hades taps his finger against his lips as if he's thinking, then stops and shoots her a dastardly smile.

"Alright, here are the rules. I told you before to find your pirate and defeat the demons and I'd let you go. I would have, too, but we've already discussed how very – unsatisfying – that would be. How about, instead, we make a new deal."

"Don't listen!" calls Snow, panicked.

Emma narrows her eyes, "I'm listening."

"The rules still stand. You found the pirate, you must still defeat the demons. You succeed, I will restore him to you – body and soul. You fail. I keep you."

"Not Henry," she spits it out almost before she realises it.

"Tsk. Not Henry indeed. I have no use for pre-pubescent authors here."

("Okay this is making me feel real good about myself."

"Henry _hush_.")

"I keep _you_. Emma Swan. You fail my little demonological assault course, I release the rest and I keep _you_."

There's a cry of _No deal!_ from five or six voices behind her, but Emma stands firm.

"Deal."

Hades bows. "I'll even give you a little preview of my… magnanimous nature. Milah, darling, do come here."

Milah moves forward in attack stance, her sword raised high, her face tight and distrusting.

"What do you want?"

"I asked you that, once, do you remember?"

He steps up to meet her, lowering her sword as he'd lowered Emma's gun back in his throne room.

"Yes."

"Well don't be taciturn my lovely, what did you say?"

Milah takes a deep breath.

"I said I wanted to make it up to my son. Abandoning him. Being selfish."

"And I gave you the opportunity, did I not? Having you take care of so many young souls?"

Milah says nothing.

"Your gratitude is noted," Hades sighs. "Now, I have seen the way you have fought to protect your grandson. I have seen that you have chosen the better path, away from selfishness and vengeance."

She cocks her head, confused.

"Your penance is complete, Milah," Hades lifts his hand and places it gently on the top of her head; a benediction, "Go in peace."

At first, nothing happens. Nobody seems inclined to move, or maybe they can't. Emma's own feet feel as if they're trapped in molasses. She's aware of Killian's breathing coming fast and a little panicky above her head. Milah lifts her eyes towards where Hades' hand rests and her mouth twists as if she's about to make some perhaps less-than-friendly comment, when there's a flash of painfully bright golden light.

The light pours from Milah, destroying the shadows in the room as it cascades out over them like a blinding warm blanket. Emma tries to watch, but it's like staring at the sun. All she can make out are the dark figures of Hades and Milah, unmoving at the centre of it all. Then, as suddenly as it appears, it's gone, remaining only as a golden sheen on Milah's skin.

"Oh," she says, and it's like music, it might be the most beautiful thing Emma's ever heard, "oh, _Bae_."

Milah actually _shimmers_ , her edges blurring and scattering. Killian's breath catches in his throat and even Emma feels a sob building up because this, this is _crazy_. She turns to face them, the silent, gobsmacked audience, and smiles. Emma sees constellations burst behind her eyes. She shimmers again, flickers, and is gone.

"What the _fuck_ was that." Snow clings to David's arm, mouth agape and filter apparently unchecked.

"That," says Hades, "Is what happens to good little girls when they die. Pretty, isn't it?"

"She can't come back?" Emma risks a look at Rumple when he speaks, because there's something frighteningly close to tears in his voice. And on his face, too, for what it's worth. She looks away.

"She wouldn't want to. She's found peace, or joy whatever it is they get when they get there. They never want to come back." Hades shrugs, "Who knows why, maybe it's the coffee?"

"So you just… let her go?"

"Keep up, David. Yes I let her go. She had completed the terms of our deal. She paid her penance, she has, how you people say it, 'gone into the light'. That was the deal." Hades tilts his head at Emma, "Not very smart, your father, is he? Sure you want him along on this next bit?"

Emma lifts her head high, "We're a family. We save each other. Together."

Hades rolls his eyes and clicks his fingers.

"Well, it's your afterlife."

All at once they find themselves in a cavernous space – Emma assumes it's a room because she feels no wind, but equally she can see no ceiling – twisted up in… well. Emma stands surrounded by the others, great lengths of some kind of glowing string attaching her to each of them and then in turn them to each other. It makes her feel like nothing so much as the spider in the middle of a great radioactive web.

"Are these supposed to be chains?" Regina lifts her right wrist, shaking at it so that the beams of light that connect her to Snow, Henry and Robin twist and sparkle, "That's very atmospheric of you, if not especially secure."

"Not chains," Hades says, "merely a warning. There are many demons you will face here, they may taunt you, or they may hurt you. They may pull at these, the bindings of love and friendship that hold you together. Don't let these bindings go out, Regina Mills. Or your soul shall be mine as surely as your mother's will remain."

He lifts his hand again. Cora fades into the background behind him.

Regina gasps, and tries to launch herself forward, but the strings seem to draw tighter and brighter, holding her back.

Hades smiles.

"I'll see you soon. I hope."

He clicks his fingers, and the world goes dark.


	7. Darkest Before

**AN: The penultimate chapter! It's massive and angsty af. Also melodrama because my mind is a soap opera. Eeek! Hope you enjoy, anyway! Thanks again for the follows/faves/reviews, I love you all xoxo.**

 **I listened to The Gaslight Anthem's** _ **Keepsake**_ **A LOT when writing this chapter. It may have influenced some things…**

* * *

 **Chapter Seven**

 **Darkest Before**

* * *

" _ **Whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap." – Galatians VI KJV**_

* * *

Lights flicker on, their dim glow reminding Emma of the emergency lighting you sometimes get in offices after dark. They reveal a grey, narrow room without windows or any obvious way to escape. The bonds of light that Hades had used to tie them together back in the apprentice's house have been replaced with ropes the thickness of Emma's finger that pull tightly between them all and drag them close in the centre of the room.

David appraises their situation with a raised brow and a sarcastic look.

"Okay. Now what. Do we just stand around and wait for our worst nightmares to pop out of the walls?"

Regina attempts to cross her arms, fails thanks to the thick ropes, and huffs irritably.

"Well that would be the easy option, as that is more or less what an ordinary week in Storybrooke consists of."

"Is Hades' approximation a fair reflection of this Storybrooke then?" Liam asks, directing his question to Henry with a smile.

"Eh." Henry shrugs.

"Mostly." Sighs David, just loud enough to be heard.

Killian laughs, more brightly than Emma can remember hearing, well, _ever_ if she's honest.

"There are somewhat fewer conflagrations, and slightly better lasagne. But you will become fond of the place in time. It tends to have that effect."

He smiles at her and squeezes her hand, and god if she doesn't just feel so ridiculously happy she could fly. No demon can touch this. No demon can touch them. No way, no how.

Snow clears her throat.

"Uh, guys?"

There's a strange mist that appearing at one end of the corridor, swirling and thickening until it suddenly fades and reveals a long darkened staircase, topped with an old oak door.

Spotlights click on with an audible _thump_ , illuminating each stair in a sickly green glow.

"Is this some sort of _joke_?"

Regina turns on Rumplestiltskin, who shrugs lightly.

"His idea of dinner theatre, I expect."

"You know," Henry says, still somehow cheerful despite the fact that demons are pretty much guaranteed to rip them limb from limb at any moment, "if this was a horror movie, they'd totally be playing the dramatic tension music right now."

Emma manages a smile.

"So are we going to wait for these 'demons' to make their presence known, or are we taking the fight to them?"

"Oh, I think we can handle it." Regina smirks, "Emma?"

Emma forces her shoulders back and head for the stairs.

They mount them in a huddle, partly because there's comfort in closeness, but mostly because the ropes binding them don't allow too much distance. Emma mentally counts the weapons at their disposal; her magic, the two pistols (though she can't remember how many rounds are left – not enough, even if they were any use). Neither the bows nor Liam's crowbar will be much use in such close quarters.

Well, she's faced worse odds. Probably.

Regina, who has ended up at the front of the group, heaves the door open. It groans as if it knows they're in a nightmare and this is its moment to shine.

"I think I prefer the movies. More popcorn, less…" Henry runs a hand over the pitted wood and shudders, "whatever this is."

"It's worse than I thought," Regina drawls from within, "we're in the circle of hell devoted to pastels."

Emma shuffles in on Robin's heels, hands thrumming slightly as she prepares to channel her power at a moment's notice. Her jaw drops as she takes in her surroundings, something hot and raw roiling through her stomach.

It's a bright room. Pale pink walls and butterfly bedsheets. There are toys and teddy bears scattered about, a white dresser and wardrobe. It's the perfect little girl's room.

She feels ill.

The gingham curtains flutter lightly in a summer breeze, and she knows for a fact that if she were to look out of the window she'd see miles of mid-Western farmland laid out before the little blue mailbox at the end of the drive that says 'Swan.'

"Is this some sort of joke?" She chokes out past the bile in her throat, grabbing fistfuls of their bindings and tugging blindly.

"Come on. Come _on_. Let's get out of here."

"Not so fast, Swan. What's the problem?"

"Indeed, no brimstone, no fiery creatures trying to eat us? It's nice." Robin gives her a little smile.

Emma can't return it, not with the way her whole body is trembling with the urge to run. Fuck Hades and his tests and his deals, she'll think of something else, they've got to _go_. She pulls at the ropes again, but it's like all her strength has left her.

"It's a _lie_ , that's what it is. Now _come on_!"

There's a sob n her voice, and then there isn't. It's in the air instead. Snow, who had been about to lift a hand in comfort, stops dead.

"Wait. Wait, is someone crying?"

Emma feels the blood drain from her face.

"No," she lies.

"Yes, yes they are. It's coming from the wardrobe."

Snow heads towards the source of the sound, forcing everybody to follow.

"Don't open the wardrobe," Emma pleads.

"Can't you hear it, Emma?"

Snow lays her hand on the wardrobe handle, brow furrowed in concern.

"Mom, please! Don't open the door!"

She opens the door.

Emma feels all her breath leave her body in a rush. It might even be a whimper. It's hard to tell over the sobs emanating from the wardrobe and its small, blonde occupant. She staggers backwards, only Killian's firm body behind her keeping her upright.

"Emma," her dad's voice wavers, "Emma, is that you?"

She nods blindly, unable to tear her eyes away from the way her younger self is curled up in a quivering ball. The way her mother has fallen to her knees at the wardrobe door, hand outstretched.

"Emma?" Snow uses the soothing voice that's usually reserved for injured birds and baby Neal's very worst fits of temper, "Emma, honey, it's okay. I'm here."

Emma – real, adult, not-a-figment-or-a-memory, Emma – shivers at the cold flash of dread that runs down the back of her neck and settles in her bones. She wants to drag her mother away from this imposter child, scream at the unfair unreality of it all, but she gags on the words.

It isn't real. It isn't real. Except for the way that it is.

"What's wrong," Snow croons, "What's wrong, baby?"

Emma's weeping doppelganger snuffles into her raised knees.

"My mama doesn't want me," she sobs.

Snow jolts, and Emma can feel the way it reverberates in the rope that connects them.

"She does, darling. So much. You'll see."

"No she doesn't. She said she wanted me, she said she'd been _waiting_ and _waiting_. But now she's got me she doesn't want me, she's having a baby of her own. A _real_ baby."

Her angry little voice subsides into more sobs, and Emma feels the world tilt and blur and – and they're not in Kansas anymore.

The delicate prettiness of the little girl's room has morphed into the dank, green, suffocating familiarity of a cave. A cave back on Neverland, with a bridge made of secrets and hope ground to dust. Neal's prison, the cage they'd come here to free him from, sits at the other end of the bridge. Little Emma sits inside it, pale and drawn and breaking her heart, the sound of her tears magnified in stereo.

"I want to have another baby!" Snow cries, but her lips don't move, and the cave seems to make each echo louder than the one before

 _Another baby – another baby –_ _ **another baby**_.

Little Emma wails.

The bridge shudders and begins to crumble, pieces dropping down into the chasm below, leaving little Emma stranded.

"Mama!" she wails, "Mama!"

Emma doesn't know why she looks down. Maybe it's because this is cutting too close to the bone. Maybe it's because she's too close to tears to catch anyone's eye. Maybe it's a sixth sense. She does, though, just in time to see the way that the bonds around Snow's wrists are fraying and loosening, to catch her mother's intent in the way her back straightens and her muscles clench, the way she moves for the edge of the crevasse as the ropes begin to ping apart.

"Mom, no!"

She's sort of semi-aware that her wild leap pulls everybody else with her, grunts and thumps behind her giving it away, but she doesn't much care. Her only concern is grabbing onto the back of Snow's coat with both hands for dear life.

Snow struggles in her grip, and the demon wails even more loudly. The very ground seems to be quaking under their feet.

"Dad!" Emma spits out, as tiny as she is Snow is strong as hell, "A little help here!"

David is too far back though, twisted up in knots with Robin and Henry. It's Regina who takes hold of Snow's middle and helps Emma to bodily haul her back.

"Thanks," Emma gasps out, leaning down slightly to take her mother's tear stained face in her hands.

Regina mumbles something non-committal about the foolishness of spelunking whilst tied to a lunatic.

"Emma," Snow sobs, "Oh Emma, I'm so sorry. All I ever do is fail you. I'm – "

Emma shushes her, feeling a bit too emotionally fraught for much else, and reaches down to re-tie the frayed ends of their connections. As she does so she hears the sobs fade away. The dankness of the cave lifts.

"I love you, Mom, okay? It's just Hades messing with your head. It's not real."

Snow nods, wiping her eyes with the back of their joined hands, and when Emma looks back up she realises that they are once again in the empty hall, staircase, door and all.

"I'm sorry to say it is, at least to you," says Rumple, not terribly apologetically at all, "Hades has no power over the land of the living, but he is able to see the story of any soul he comes into contact with. It's how he sets his terms, for those seeking to pay penance, and how he chooses his price."

"I'm surprised you ever wanted to leave this place, seems like you two are kindred spirits." Grunts David, finally unknotting himself enough to draw closer to his wife.

Rumple grimaces at him.

"Have you, at any point in our acquaintance, known me to be a fan of sharing?"

Without dropping Snow's hands, Emma turns to Liam; though she has to speak to him over Killian's shoulder thanks to their bonds.

"Is that what Milah meant, when she said he'd show you things?"

Liam nods.

"Aye. He can reward those who please him and torture those who don't."

"Like… watching your own funeral?"

Liam scrunches his face up in distaste.

"I suppose, if one were so morbidly inclined. Mostly he preferred to demonstrate your abject failings, which is, I strongly suspect, what he is attempting to achieve here."

Emma feels Snow shudder. Attempting, she thinks, might not quite be the word.

"Our worst fears, the worst parts of ourselves."

Emma sighs. This is going to be great fun.

Henry is looking around the empty room in confusion.

"I thought we were going to fight demons? Like those monsters?"

Killian smiles at him, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes.

"There are far more disagreeable things than monsters, lad, and they are mainly to be found in our own minds."

Regina brushes invisible dust off of her coat, glaring at the returned staircase.

"And if there's one thing I hate more than literal demons, it's _figurative_ ones."

"Shall we?" Liam gestures towards the staircase, and Emma notices for the first time that only one of his wrists is bound, "We will achieve little by standing around bemoaning Hades' tricks."

They repeat themselves, shuffling up the stairs again. Even the creak of the door is the same cadence. Emma manages to get through first this time, though. Killian and Liam close on her heels.

("You first Killian, if you insist on being the elder we will go age before beauty!"

"Liam!"

"Tell me, do all you pirates blush so?"

"Liam, shut _up_!")

It's a graveyard. Zero points for originality, Hades.

Then she sees the single occupant and balks, throwing her hands back to prevent any of the others coming through.

"Henry," she whispers through clenched teeth, "Henry remember, it's not real."

"What is going on?" Regina huffs.

Emma finds herself propelled forwards by the motion of those behind her, until they are all in the room, and she's barely six feet from–

"Neal."

Neal, or at least the demon wearing his face, looks up from his position sitting cross-legged on a grave and gives a little wave.

"Em! Long time no see!"

Almost unconsciously, she finds herself reaching back for Killian, just to check he's still there. Her eyes searching out Henry, who is watching this approximation of his father with a disquieting combination of trepidation and hope.

"Bae?" Rumplestiltskin forces his way through them with no heed for their bonds, his jaw slack, "Bae is that you?"

"Were you not paying attention?" David says, "It's not really him."

"That would suit you, wouldn't it Papa?" Neal smiles, but it's not Neal's smile, "After what you did."

"I told you," Rumple lifts his hands, "I am _sorry_ , Bae. I made a _mistake_."

"Oh!" Neal laughs, and all the hairs on the back of Emma's neck stand on end, "Yes, when you abandoned me to the land without magic. I remember. But do you know what else I remember?"

Rumple winces as Neal attempts a crude impersonation.

"I'm going to be a better man, son! I'm going to make your sacrifice worthwhile, son! I'm going to murder Zelena for you, son!"

(Emma feels Regina's reaction to that travel down their bond like electricity.)

Neal snarls.

"You didn't manage any of it did you, Papa? You fail me over, and over, and over."

Rumple wrings his hands together.

"I tried, Bae. I did try. But everything I've done, it's been for the best. You can see that can't you Bae?"

Neal shakes his head and gradually gets to his feet.

"I believed you once, Papa. Look where it got me. Where do you think it's gonna get her, hmm?"

He stands to one side, and gestures theatrically to the headstone he's been leaning against.

 _ **Belle Gold**_

Rumple lets out a roar of indignation and launches himself at the grave, just as a small earthquake seems to rock them and the graves around them begin to sink and open. The bonds around Rumple's wrists fraying as he begins to scrabble in the dirt.

Emma is at the front. Emma is closest. Emma should grab him and pull him back.

She doesn't. God help her she _can't_.

"I cannot _believe_ I am doing this."

Killian forces himself past her, grabbing Rumple by the scruff of the neck and dragging him back to the group.

"No," he spits in Rumple's face, "No, you're not getting away with it this easily. You don't get to be the martyr here, you get to come home with us and tell your wife why she _still_ isn't enough. That's my gift to you Dark One, your worthless, pitiless life."

He shoves Rumple away from him as the hallway room returns, another staircase beckoning them on.

"Well," Robin sighs, "we march on."

Regina audibly groans when she realises that they have been deposited in her crypt.

"I really thought he'd have run out of things to throw at me back in the woods."

Emma raises her brows at Robin, but he just shakes his head. Whatever story there is there won't be shared.

"There are a lot of things in that head of yours, Regina," says a disembodied male voice, "More than in your heart, anyway."

"You're wasting your time with me," she calls, I won't be convinced by one of your parlour tricks!"

There's a husky laugh from behind one of the cabinets, followed by the appearance of a white-haired man who ducks out into the crypt with his arms open in greeting.

Regina's mouth twists unhappily, but otherwise she makes no move to acknowledge him.

"That's what I said, sweetheart! I told him – of all the hundreds of people Regina's killed, she probably doesn't even remember me."

"Of course I remember you," Regina snaps, "but you're not real. My father would never speak to me in this manner."

Regina's not-father sneers and shows his teeth.

"No, I'm not him. I couldn't be him could I? Because he was the thing you loved most and you, you crushed his heart as he begged for mercy."

"It was the price I had to pay," she hisses through clenched teeth.

"So why was it he who paid it, hmmm? How many people have paid with their lives, sacrificed their happiness, so that Regina Mills can get her own way?"

"I've changed."

"Regina…" Robin lays a cautioning hand on her shoulder, but she shrugs it off.

"And when was that? After you killed your husband? Your father? After you almost killed the son you profess to love so dearly? After you tortured and broke the heart of the girl you should have loved as a daughter?"

He tugs on the rope that binds her to Robin.

"I wish you luck. She will betray you, she always does. She enjoys the darkness too much to ever give it up. It's all she's ever had, you see. It's _faithful_."

"No. You're wrong. I believe in her."

The demon's eyes are dark and sinister.

"She'll never change. She'll always be the Evil Queen. Tell me Regina, how are you finding being a step-mother this time around?"

Regina shakes her head, confused.

"Wh-what?"

"Yes, those sweet little children." He smiles a nasty little smile and turns away, his words echoing behind him as he fades into blackness, "I hope they can keep a secret."

"That's not fair! I've changed! I've…"

The crypt warps, and the tomb that has always held her father's body cracks and divides until it's reformed into two tiny white coffins. Emma feels suddenly, violently ill.

"Have you?" Echoes his voice.

Robin and Regina move as one, bolting towards the coffins, but Snow and David manage to be quicker – Snow grabbing Regina by her elbow and David having Robin in a very uncomfortable looking headlock.

"It's not real," Snow grunts into Regina's ear, "it's not real and it won't ever _be_ real."

David releases Robin (looking slightly the worse for wear, apparently the thief had not taken well to the headlock), who turns his back on the coffins with evident difficulty to take Regina's hand in his.

"You're not the Evil Queen. I trust you, I will always trust you."

Regina's lip wobbles, and she gives Snow a less-than-impressive glare as she brushes off her hand.

"It's all right," Robins moves to stroke her back, and the crypt fades away, "It'll be fine. We just have to stick together and get through it, he's bound to run out of traumas to throw in our faces eventually."

Regina looks unconvinced; Killian actually laughs.

Rumple rolls his eyes, hard.

"Your confidence is impressive, but misplaced. Hades has no intention of allowing any of us to leave."

Emma glares at him, disbelief raging through her. There's got to be an end to it, they just have to defeat the right demons, _enough_ demons.

"But he said..."

They had a _deal_.

"Miss Swan," Rumple is almost gentle, "Take it from a man who is something of an expert in these matters. Hades will never make a deal in which he does not come out on top."

"By keeping Emma." David says, pulling Snow close.

"By keeping all of us. Don't put yourself down Dearie, I'm sure Hades can find something of use in even your tedious soul."

Emma shakes her head, sets her shoulders. Sets her nerve.

"No. No, I'm not giving in. We've got this far and we're all going home."

None of them seem to want to meet her eyes, and she realises with a sort of sick finality that they think she's failed. That her parents, that Henry, don't think she can save them anymore, and even though they've yet to make another attempt on the stairs she wonders if this is Hades' test for her anyway. If he wants to know if the girl who was never enough can face failure.

Killian steps closer, lifting his hand to stroke her cheek but is stymied by the elaborate knots he's managed to tie his bonds into.

"Emma…"

She narrows her eyes.

"Don't you dare. You always believe in me, don't you dare doubt me now."

What she doesn't say: _If you don't believe in me I_ know _that I'll fail._

Killian must see it written all over her face regardless – open book after all – and just shakes his head gently with a soft smile and softer eyes.

"I could never doubt you, my love. I am merely wondering what I could have done to deserve you."

The lost girl in Emma understands that feeling – that idea of how can I possibly be worth all this – but the Emma who lit the promethean flame, the Emma that is open to love and a future, kind of wants to laugh at the idea of Killian Jones ever needing to _deserve_ her.

"You probably don't, on paper" she mumbles as she leans in and buries her face in his jacket, "but that's okay. I'm not a reward for heroics. I choose you, and you choose me."

"Aye," he whispers into her hair, "I see that now."

Suddenly aware that they are in very close proximity to lots of other people and this is about to take a turn for the emotional again she pulls back and lightly smacks at his arm, making his eyebrow jump and his mouth twist into a smirk.

"So if some misguided sense of having to earn me is why you keep playing the noble-sacrifice card, you can stop. You're no use to me dead, no matter how heroically you go about it."

Killian mock bows, but she can hear sincerity in his reply.

"I shall venture to keep that in mind in future."

"Yeah. Do."

They swing the door open almost nonchalantly this time – after Hades' previous imaginative efforts Emma's expecting maybe a battlefield or a burning ship or sixth grade algebra – only to be met with something rather more surreal.

They're in a cabin, rather small and built in a style that Emma might charitably describe as 'rustic', but every wall, the ceiling, hell every available surface is draped with cloth. Sailcloth, silks, leathers – there's barely a surface uncovered except for a small area of floor where there kneels a young woman with reddish hair, elbow deep in a wash barrel.

She's humming to herself, something jaunty and vaguely familiar, and isn't paying them any attention whatsoever.

"Well," says Killian with resignation, "it could have been worse."

Emma turns to give him a questioning look, but is distracted by the way all the colour has drained out of Liam's face. ( _He looks like a dead man_ , she thinks, and ice trickles through her veins.)

The woman stops humming at the sound of Killian's voice, lifting her head with a start as if they are the ones surprising her. She looks up at them with blue, blue eyes and Emma feels her heart actually stop for two or three beats.

"Ah! I'd been wondering when you boys would show yourselves!"

Killian sighs, and it's not angry or traumatised, just resigned and a little bit sad.

"Hello, Mam."

Liam says nothing.

The woman, their _mother_ – except not, obviously not – quirks her lips into a familiar look of displeasure.

"Nowt to say to your own mother, Liam lad? And after I spent my days scrubbing on my knees to feed you! Ingratitude is bad form, boy."

She huffs, and forces her arms down into the barrel again. The contents splash slightly, scattering dark red spots over her chest and face.

Killian recoils in horror.

"What – what are you doing?"

His mother lifts an eyebrow, the blood on her cheek glistening and becoming cracked freckles as it dries.

"Why just what it looks like lad! I'm trying to get the blood out!"

She gives whatever she's holding a firm scrub and the liquid sloshes, red and viscous, over the sides of the barrel. She lifts out a shirt. It might have been white once, but now it's stained brown with old blood, the fresh stuff dripping from the hems.

"Mam, that won't _work_."

Killian seems more bemused than distressed, unlike Liam who is looking more and more like he may throw up at any moment. Their mother tuts and shakes the shirt in his direction, splattering the floor with fat, red globules.

"It best had! What have you been doing lad, to soil your uniform so?"

Killian cringes then, and Emma's heart twinges because haven't they _just_ been through this? Hasn't he promised her, promised Liam that he's going to believe in himself?

"Mam – Mam I…"

"T'was me Mam. I wasn't watching him."

Liam speaks up, but his voice is quieter, the accent more broken. He sounds like a little boy admitting to some terrible sin, but as he steps forward and shields Killian his spine is as straight and his gait as sure as ever.

His mother narrows her eyes and shakes a bloodstained finger at him.

"You must always watch your brother Liam Jones, did I teach you nothing? Did you not promise me on my very deathbed?" She stands and approaches them, the shirt held out in front of her, "It gets in all the stitching, see? Blood gets in all your stitching and it won't come out."

She tries to get around Liam, seemingly wanting to show Killian the way that gore has congealed in the seams of the shirt, but he keeps his body between them. She scowls, clearly frustrated.

"This is his fault. Terrible man. Heartless man. Not cold in my grave before he's selling my children. And the blood will out, I swear it the blood will out." She rubs a hand across her brow leaving an angry red smear in its wake, then narrows her eyes at Killian, "You look like him you know."

Killian swallows hard.

"Aye, I know."

"You always were trouble, even as a babe. Never could keep yourself from some adventure that ended in disaster."

She tuts, her head tilting to one side, and turns to Liam.

"But you, I expected better from you."

Liam cringes, his voice struggling to stay level as he replies.

"With the greatest of respect, you are not, in truth, my mother. I can handle being the cause of vexation to a demon."

The corner of the woman's mouth ticks up, and she almost seems to float as she moves closer, inserting herself into the gap between the brothers rather more easily than she should have been able to.

"You failed her, your mother. You promised her you would protect your brother, and you failed."

Killian growls, his hand flying out to grab at the demon.

"He failed no-one! He is a hero! _I_ was the one who failed. I won't fail again."

The demon looks up at Killian, her face the picture of satisfaction. He sounds sure, and angry, but Emma feels her heart clench and sees her own fear reflected in Liam's eyes.

"That's what your father said," says the demon, voice teetering on smug, "and we all know where that got him."

There's another world-altering shudder, and the bloodied wash house is replaced with the grass outside of a small cottage. A man lies bleeding from a wound at his side, a small boy puling pitifully at his clothes.

"Papa? Papa wake up. _Papa_!"

The little boy starts to weep, and Emma watches as the self-loathing Killian has tried so hard to set aside re-engulfs him.

"Don't you see, my boy, this is what happens when you try to change. You never can. The blood will out."

She smiles, a vicious victorious smile, plucking at Killian's bound wrists with wild eyes as he pales, and the blood pours from his father's stab wound, more blood than Emma could ever have imagined, and laps at their feet, then their ankles, then –

 _Smack_.

Henry stands over the fallen demon as the world flickers and starts to fade. He's holding Liam's crowbar in both hands and looking slightly sheepish.

"Sorry I knocked out your demon mom, Killian."

Killian, still a bit shell-shocked, simply nods.

"Aye, well, it's not the most peculiar event I've witnessed recently."

"This is ridiculous," Regina practically vibrates with frustrated fury, "are we just going to continue with this twisted version of family therapy until we collapse?"

"I'm starting to think that was his plan all along, I mean, look at us. We will be here centuries fighting off all of _our_ demons."

Snow shuffles on the spot, biting her lip and looking down awkwardly.

"I have an idea. You won't like it."

Emma leans back with a sigh, and gestures for her mother to go ahead.

"Hit me," she grouses, "I'm pretty used to not liking things right now."

"Hades wants a soul, right? I mean, he wants yours, but it's always been a life for a life here, and he's not even tried to take you yet. He says he's a business man, maybe he just wants, you know, payment."

"What are you saying?"

Emma knows what she's saying, and Snow knows she knows, giving her a sad half smile.

"I'm saying that I think the only way we're going to get out of here is to give him what he wants."

"Mom, no. I am not leaving anybody behind."

"What if someone were to choose to stay?"

Emma stares at Liam, slack-jawed.

"What?"

"I have been dead a very long time Emma, the world of the living holds nothing for me except for the satisfaction of seeing my brother happy, which he shall only be if you go. So go."

Liam's tone is firm, he doesn't break eye-contact with Killian even as the later physically balks.

"Go? What, and leave you _here_? Are you _mad_?"

Liam's expression doesn't change.

"This is me asking nicely, Killian. Do not make me order you."

"I'm not your _subordinate_. I'm your _brother_!" Killian flings himself round to face Emma, eyes wild. "There's got to be another way. There is _always_ another way."

Emma bites down on her lip, hard, and closes her eyes. What can she say? There's nothing to say.

"It might not even work," he pleads and she's not sure if it's with her or Liam or himself.

Liam shrugs lightly.

"Then I shall have kept my promise to our mother, and tried my very best to protect you regardless. Besides, I am already dead. It is barely a sacrifice."

Emma looks at him then, brave, strong, noble Liam who was the hero of all Killian's stories, and tries to ignore the way her eyes are filling up.

"I want you to know," she says huskily, "that if I could – if I could bring you home too, I would. In a heartbeat."

Killian almost crumbles at her tacit admission that this is the only way she can see out, but Liam nods at her, a little prideful smile playing around his mouth.

"Aye, I know your Highness. I bear you no ill will. Only gratitude, for doing what I could not."

She tilts her head at him, and he reaches up with his free hand to ruffle Killian's hair (it's just like Killian does to Henry and she can't she _can't_ ).

"Why saving this one from himself, of course. It is a rather continuous task, but one I am sure you will perform magnificently at."

Killian snorts tearily. Liam winks at her.

"You might want to consider giving him that ring back. Just in case."

Emma blushes hard, the weight of the ring between her breasts has been a talisman since Killian gave it to her – she has no intentions of letting it shed its meaning when they get home. She wonders if she should tell Liam, or god, ask permission like Killian almost certainly would, but then he smiles at her – a big, beaming, joyous smile, and she figures he already knows.

Liam turns his full attention back to Killian, and Emma tries to melt into the shadows with the others as they try very hard to pretend they're not watching. Henry snuggles in to her side; the comfort is welcome to both of them.

"I'm not going to ask you not to do anything stupid, because we both know that that is a physical impossibility, but there are two things you can do for me."

"Anything. Anything at all."

"The other boy – find him. It won't be easy, he may despise you, and the gods all know no man needs to tell me how contrary baby brothers are, but he is one of ours Killian. Don't abandon him."

Killian's face is pale and conflicted, but the nod he gives Liam is sure.

"I will. I'll do you proud."

Liam's brave face shifts slightly into something soft and a little bit sad.

"You know, when I first met Milah, I could not abide her. I tried to blame her for all the things that had gone wrong in your life, accused her of being a bad influence if you can believe it! So when she came to me, pleading with me to just look and see the man you were becoming, I would not hear of it. I sent her away, told her that my brother was dead – murdered by a pirate. She still used to come. _Look what a hero he's become_ , she'd tell me. I didn't believe her." The skin of his cheeks is wet now, "I believe her now. It is easy to be noble and good when the seas are calm, but it takes great courage to embrace the storm and ride it out to clear waters. I am so proud, Killian, to be your brother."

Killian's reply is muffled as he throws himself into his brother's embrace with such force that the rope binding his wrist to Emma's pulls taut. The strength of Liam's return of it is obvious in the way his knuckles turn white as they clutch his brother's leather jacket.

"I can't leave you," Killian is outright crying now and Emma hates – _hates_ – that Rumplestiltskin of all people is here to witness it, "I can't lose you again, Liam. I _can't_."

"It's not forever," Liam soothes, "Not even so long as we have already been separated. You are a mortal man, Killian. I shall wait for you until we meet again." He laughs a little bit, "Though I imagine we both hope it shall not be all _too_ soon."

Killian snorts into his shoulder.

"The other thing, the other and most imperative thing that I need you to do for me, is this," Liam pulls back, takes Killian's hand and hook in his own hands and smiles, "believe Milah. Believe me. Believe Emma. You are a hero, Killian Jones. Now go."

Quickly, as if ripping off a band-aid, Liam tucks the edge of Killian's hook under the rope around his wrist, and pulls it apart.

The effect is instantaneous – a great gaping hole appears above their heads, spinning with the blue-green portal magic and pulling the bound group up towards it. Emma heaves on the rope that connects her to Killian, pulling him tight to her side and interlocking his fingers with hers. As the portal lifts her off her feet, she spares a last glance for the man who has saved her happy ending.

Liam stands serenely just outside of the portal's wake, a small smile on his face and his skin already beginning to glow with golden light. He gives her a familiar cheeky lop-sided grin, and as the portal sucks her away, she sees him snap into a salute, and shimmer away.

Traveling by portal is never smooth, not when you're on a ship, not when you're in a well, and definitely not when you are tied to seven other people, all of whom seem to be spinning in opposite directions, so it takes her a moment to realise that she's landed.

There's cool grass under her back, the air is fresh and the sky that grey-blue that follows rain. They're back, she sits up, a sob escaping before she can swallow it back, they're _back_. Henry beams at her as he helps Regina pull Robin to his feet, his eyes sparkling with the restraint of not telling her _I told you so_. Her parents are in each others arms, faces pressed close in relief and Killian –

She looks down, brushes the loose ends of the ropes from her wrist, and stares blindly.

Her hand is empty.

Killian is gone.

* * *

 _ ***Twiddles thumbs* *whistles nonchalantly***  
_

 **One more chapter still to go folks :D**


	8. Deliverance

**AN: Here it is – the end of the one and only multi-chapter I've ever completed! The only reason I've managed it (and with a month to spare until my self-imposed deadline of 5x12 no less) is because of the constant and fantastic encouragement of your reviews, faves and follows. I hope you find the ending satisfying, and I'll see you all in hell for 5b :)** **.**

* * *

 **Chapter Eight**

 **Deliverance**

* * *

" _ **Long is the way and hard, that out of Hell leads up to light." – Milton**_

* * *

The third time he wakes is the worst.

It's cold, frost cracking over his skin as he twists in the limited space, his clothes are gone - replaced with something thin and frankly useless – and there's something thick and unwieldly wrapped around him. It makes it hard to breathe, the material covering his nose and mouth every time he tries to draw breath, and in the pitch darkness he cannot gather his bearings well enough to rip himself free. He lies perfectly still and feels ice forming on his eyelashes.

Emma.

He was holding her hand, his brother sacrificing his second chance to give Killian his own, and they were flying through the portal and he was _holding her hand_. Somewhere outside of his cocoon he can hear muted murmurings; if there are people nearby, they may know what's happened, where he is, where _Emma_ is. Emma may even be amongst them. This then, is to be his eternal torment – to forever be so near and yet so far.

"Emma!"

It comes out as a harsh little squeak, as if he hasn't spoken in days – weeks even, and he tries his damnedest to draw a bigger breath, swallowing hard at the sandpaper texture of his mouth.

"EMMA!"

He kicks out, surprised to hear a metallic clang as his feet hit the end of his cage. The voices stop. He kicks out again, and again, clawing at the material that binds him (hook-less, of course, and just when it would be most useful), until there's a terrible screeching sound and bright white light filters through into his prison.

The material parts – a zipper, how convenient – and he blinks up into the sail-white face of a young woman, her attire that of one of Storybrooke's nurses. She peers down at him, mouth agape.

"Hello," he says, cursing the way words hurt, and watches as she faints dead away.

He sits up with great difficulty, brushing ice crystals from his hair and attempting a charming smile at a porter who has pressed himself against the wall, eyes wide with terror, who slides slowly down and into unconsciousness.

Killian huffs, dragging his partially dressed body out of the bag he finds himself in and off of the metal gurney, nudging the nurse with a blueish toe.

"It's always nice to make an impression."

* * *

No.

No, no, no, _no._

This is _not_ happening. He was _right here,_ he was ri-

"Emma."

She rips herself from her father's comforting arms, her own wrapping hard around her stomach as if she can keep the fear at bay if she can just squeeze tightly enough; if she cracks her own ribs, maybe she'll wake up and he'll be here and safe and this is a nightmare because she cannot fail. She can't. She _can't._

"Emma, just listen – "

"No!" She snarls, a wild, feral thing, "No I am _done_ with listening. I want _Killian_ , I want him _back_ , I want – "

She stamps her foot, a five year old's temper tantrum born of grief she doesn't know how to bear.

"Emma! Stop."

Her mother grabs hold of her shoulders and spins her so that they are eye to eye, Snow staring Emma down with an unblinking intensity.

"I know you've been though a lot, we all have," Regina mumbles something – probably derogatory - in the background, but Snow continues regardless, "you must remember that Killian has been through even more. You have to pull yourself together for his sake."

Emma feels like she's flying apart, her very atoms fleeing from the great black hole in her chest where Killian ought to be. She can't pull herself together in a world where her glue is gone, she can't. If her mother doesn't get that by now, doesn't comprehend the enormity of what failed to save him means, then she never ever will.

Snow strokes one trembling cheek.

"I understand," she says.

Emma doubts it.

"Let's go."

David peels her gently away from Snow and guides her to his truck, still parked at the end of the track to the lake as if no time has passed at all since they left.

"Go where?"

She tries to wriggle free from David's grip. The only place she is interested in going is wherever Killian is, and if that means slitting her own vein and jumping straight back into Hades' clutches so fucking be it.

Some of that must have actually come out of her mouth because David manhandles her into the passenger seat with a gruff:

"Let's not, shall we? I think we outstayed our welcome already."

"Where are we _going_?"

"The hospital," Henry squeezes in on her other side, "we reappeared back by the lake, where we started from, and that's where he was, y'know, _before_ , so it's the most likely place to find him now."

Emma takes a deep shuddering breath.

In.

Out.

It makes sense. It's a good theory.

In.

Out.

Hope flares in the darkness.

"Okay," she manages, reasonably calmly, "and you are here, why?"

Henry rolls his eyes, exasperated.

"Aside from wanting to make sure you're okay and that Killian's okay?" He fishes something from his backpack, "When Hades was distracted, I managed to find a back-up plan."

Emma gapes at the simple wooden pen and the smug glint in her son's eyes.

"You little thief," she breathes.

Henry smiles, inordinately proud of himself.

"I learned from the best."

David over-revs the truck and sends the three of them on their way to the hospital in a cloud of clutch dust and tyre smoke that Emma appreciates even if his mechanic won't.

"You okay?" She asks her father as her frenzy calms under the twin encouragements of hope and the throbbing engine.

David clenches his white knuckles harder around the steering wheel and grimaces.

"Of course, why wouldn't I be?"

Emma checks out the set of his jaw, the slope of his shoulders.

 _Lie_.

"I'm sure you want to get back to Neal," she hazards as he flings the truck into a corner.

"Nope," David bites out, "Neal will be fine with the fairies and your mother."

Emma bites her lip.

"Are you – mad at me?"

She hates the way her voice gets small and nervous, the way that Henry lays a comforting hand on her arm as if she's the kid here, but most of all she hates the way she wouldn't really be surprised. She's just dragged everyone to hell and back. Literally.

David clenches his fist around the wheel so hard she's afraid it might shatter.

"Mad at – mad at _you_? Emma, no," he throws the truck hard into another corner until Henry's practically in her lap, "I'm mad at _myself_. I have failed you time and time again. I told you to let your love die when I know I could never do the same thing, and then when you saved him, when you opened your heart to love, I didn't believe in him or you or in the love that you share. You are my daughter and Killian is my mate, and all I can do to make it up to both if you is to bring him home – even if I have to go back to that godforsaken place and drag him out by the hook."

He's breathing heavily at the end of his confession, pulling the parking brake on the truck slightly harder than necessary as they come to a stop outside of Storybrooke General.

"Don't tell him I said that."

Henry gestures as if zipping his lips closed.

Emma smiles wanly.

"We've got to find him first."

"Oh, I wouldn't worry about that," David gestures out of the windscreen towards a pale looking nurse who's breathing heavily into a paper bag, Doctor Whale in apparently intense conversation with two or three other unhappy looking medical staff, while a porter lies passed out at his feet, "People fainting, a general sense of alarm and hysteria – looks like my hunch was right. He's here."

David and Henry leave the truck and approach with due caution, whereas Emma more or less storms up to Whale as he continues to attempt to soothe his staff.

"Stay calm, please." He tells them, hands outstretched, "I have experience in these matters."

"Experience of people rising from the dead?" Somebody shouts, half disbelief, half outrage.

Whale sighs and looks to the heavens.

"…you've forgotten who I actually am, haven't you?"

He turns to Emma and her companions with a slightly nervous smile of greeting, his eyes settling on Emma's head, seemingly shrinking with relief at whatever he finds there.

"Ah, Sheriff Swan. I see you've reverted to the natural look. My skull is pleased to see it."

Emma glares at him.

"What? Never mind. Where is he?"

"Our erstwhile pirate? Well after he finished traumatising the mortuary staff, he turned his attentions to the security team."

"You've locked him _up_?"

She hears a grumbled _we've tried_ from one of the others but keeps her glare fixed on Whale. He shakes his head apologetically.

"Hardly. It's not a crime to be resurrected, Sheriff, he's a little – discombobulated, that's all. I'm sure once he's calmed down he'll – "

"Give. Me. My. Bloody. Things!"

There's a roar of mingled frustration and fury from beyond the hospital doorway, and Emma's heart seems to stop before racing away with her tenfold, leading her feet through the sliding doors before she's even told them to move.

It's not like she was expecting, this reunion with her One True Love ™, not that she was expecting fireworks or choirs of angels or anything (their trip to the underworld has put the kibosh on that for sure), but she wasn't prepared for the audience of five burly security guards, or to be faced with Killian's near-nakedness (well, okay, that she _had_ imagined, in great detail if she's honest, but again – _audience_ ).

Her heart soars as she watches him remonstrate with security, vital and alive and _Killian_ even when he's pale as snow in a paper gown, nametag still hanging off his bare toes. It ought to scare her, or sadden her, these physical reminders of his sudden resurrection, but instead it's gratitude and relief and love and pure, pure joy that send her flying across the lobby, scattering security guards in her wake, and finally launching herself into his surprised and hook-less arms.

"Swan," he gasps, winded by the force of her tackle, "You found me."

"I will _always_ find you," she bites out into the collar of his gown, the tears she wants to shed catch in her throat and escape as gasps of semi-hysterical laughter, " _Always._ "

"You make that sound like a threat," he says, his voice tender and a little bit awed.

"I think it actually is," she snorts into his chest and his answering rumble of laughter is up there with the most beautiful things she's ever heard.

"Welcome back, Captain," calls her father from the doorway in wry relief, "you know, you can tie those gowns up."

"Alas, Dave," Killian calls, lifting his stump, "These things are not designed for the likes of me."

Emma pulls back from him and reaches for the ties at the side of his gown, little giggles escaping as she tries to restore a modicum of dignity to the situation.

Killian looks down at her, smiling but nonplussed.

"What's so funny, love?"

Emma rests her forehead on his shoulder and barely resists the urge to rub against him like a cat.

( _Audience_.)

"It's just – us. This is so _us_. We've fought so hard for our future and here it is and – "

She snorts inelegantly again. The security guards, rather wisely, maintain their distance.

"And it is not quite what you were expecting?" he quirks an eyebrow at her, but his tone is teasing. She gets the impression that he feels as light, and as free, and as _crazy_ as she does.

"You are in the middle of a fight where you're out-numbered five to one, one handed, with your ass on display to the entire world."

Killian tilts his head and hums in agreement.

"My seduction technique may require some refreshing, no doubt. A bout of death can cramp even my indomitable style."

"Why _are_ you fighting the security guards?" she asks, mostly to distract her brain from imagining just how such _refreshing_ might take place.

"A better question might be why does a place of healing require such," he scrunches his face up in distaste, "brutish levels of protection."

"That probably has something to do with the labour suite being attacked by bad guys, I expect."

Emma pulls away slightly from Killian to turn towards the doorway where her son now stands beside her father, his hands in his pockets and a nervous twist to his smile.

"Henry," says Killian, and she can almost taste his relief in that one word. The word that means it's going to be alright. They are together. They can do this, being a family. They can _do_ this.

"Hi Killian," Henry scuffs the toe of his sneaker along the grey carpet, "I'm really sorry, about your brother."

Killian stiffens slightly, the shadow of grief flickering over his face before he physically shakes it off, refusing to burden Henry with his pain. His smile is strained, but genuine enough as he turns to fully face the boy.

"Aye, well. It seems I have had the luck of attracting the affections of heroic, self-sacrificing types who think I am worth their attention." He rests his hand on Emma's shoulder, and she almost subconsciously tilts her head to press her cheek against it, "I have been very lucky to have had such a brother. I will do my very best to prove his faith in me correct."

Henry looks from Killian to Emma with an expression that seems just a little too knowing for a thirteen year old.

"You will, I'm sure of it."

His surety – his absolute faith – comes through loud and clear in the way that he speaks and the way that his eyes shine with a fierce sort of devotion that Emma has been loath to see directed at anyone but her (not even at Regina, if she's truly honest with herself).

Killian must see it too, must appreciate Henry's love for the gift it is, because his answering nod is solemn, his words full of both gratitude and promise.

"Thank you, Henry. I won't let you down."

Henry strides over and throws his arms around Killian.

"I _know_ ," he whispers.

Emma sniffs and has to turn away when Killian presses a kiss to the top of Henry's head, this moment's not meant for her (she's never been more okay with that).

Henry steps away with pink cheeks but a beaming smile.

"Okay, okay so… I think I'd better get back to Regina, make sure nothing's gone crazy again, y'know." He waves his hands around in a gesture that Emma recognises as meaning 'because Storybrooke', "See you later, Mom, Killian. At home, yeah?"

Emma surreptitiously tries to wipe a tear from her cheek.

"Yeah kid, at home."

Henry chivvies his Grandpa out the door before him, hissing something Emma can't make out as David keeps throwing concerned glances at them over his shoulder.

Emma would follow them out to the truck, despite how crowded it might be and how desperately she wants to avoid the whole town converging on her and Killian right now, but there's something she has to do first.

Questions that need asking.

She lays her hands on Killian's chest and concentrates on the way she can feel his heartbeat through the thin material.

"Do you want to come home with me?"

Killian scoffs, his hand coming up to rest on top of hers.

"That is a rather ridiculous question if you don't mind my saying so."

Emma stares at their hands, determined to get the words out even if she's still afraid of what his answer might be.

"I mean, we both did some pretty terrible things in that house. If it was too much, if you didn't want to – y'know – be there. With me. I'd understand."

She would. She'd _hate_ it, cry and rage and scream in the privacy of a lonely bedroom about the wrongness of it all, but she'd understand. Some words can't be taken back, some actions can't be undone.

Killian entwines his fingers with hers again, she can feel his sigh even though she won't look at him.

"What an odd notion. Wherever you are is my home, Emma. The house is just bricks and mortar, it only holds the memories we choose for it, and it is my intention to fill it with very, _very_ happy ones."

He nudges her chin up with his stump as he speaks, until they're eye to eye again, something cheeky and a little bit lascivious in his gaze.

It doesn't encourage her to hang around in the lobby of a public place, that's for sure.

(Plus, he promised her fun, and he's taken his sweet time fulfilling that one. Emma might be running a bit low on patience.)

She licks her lips as she smiles back, and watches the way his eyes darken.

"Okay Casanova, let's lose the audience. Do you trust me?"

He raises an eyebrow.

"With my life."

She lifts her hand, concentrates, and pulls him tight against her as white-gold smoke surrounds and swallows them.

"One positive hangover from being the Dark One," she says as she rocks back onto her heels, the gravel pathway to their house crunching beneath her, "You really can't overestimate the usefulness of teleporting places."

Killian smiles before looking down at his attire with a scowl.

"I don't suppose you could return my hook by the same means? I'd ask for my clothes, but I imagine they've seen better days."

She remembers the way his blood had pooled beneath him, the way it had stained her hands and sweater as she'd clung to the tear she'd made through the literal heart of him. The way she'd screamed…

"Emma. Swan," his hand, his warm _living_ hand comes up to hold her chin gently lifting her face so that their eyes can meet, "whatever scenario you're imagining in that head of yours, stop it. I'm here. You're here. It's going to be okay."

She gives him a tremulous smile, and with another wave of her hand he is back in his preferred leather jacket and over-tight jeans, his hook cool and solid resting on the small of her back.

"I was just thinking about how much I liked this jacket," she says, running her hands over the back of it, reassuring herself by the smoothness of the leather.

"It's an improvement on a paper nightgown, certainly," he takes her hand in his and links their fingers as they mount the pristine porch steps, giving a gentle squeeze when he feels her hesitation at the top, "now shall we go inside so that I can demonstrate how much more fetching it appears on our bedroom floor?"

She snorts.

"You're incorrigible."

He shrugs lightly.

"What can I say? I am a man reborn."

Her heart judders at that, too close a reminder to the way they'd left things the last time they were in this house – this _real_ house – when they'd been together and yet not. She tugs him back as he approaches the door again, unable to let him enter until she's said what she needs, what she _wants_ , to say.

He turns back to her, one eyebrow raised in question, and she can already see the doubt creeping across his face. Even now, even after everything, part of him is still waiting for her to run.

She's seen enough of that to last her a lifetime. She is done with fear overruling her, him, _them_.

Fucking done.

Nerves still make her voice quake, though. Apparently her body didn't get the being brave memo.

"Killian. Killian, I – " she drops his hand and watches the way his eyes follow her movement, doubt turning into fear and prickling at the edge of his expression. She reaches up to lift the chain holding Liam's ring from around her neck.

"I know you told me to keep this, as a reminder that all things can be forgiven," she takes a deep breath, "and that's something we could both do with remembering, I know, but this kept you alive, or at least it might have…"

She curses herself for babbling as she unclasps the chain with shaking fingers and lets the ring roll into her palm.

"And that's not something I'm prepared to risk, any more. I won't lose you. Not to darkness, not to my own stupid fears and _definitely_ not to death, at least not until we are really old and grey and I actually think it's your turn to let me go first y'know…"

Killian makes a funny little noise, as if he might interrupt but doesn't know what to say, and she shakes her head to shut him up. Emma isn't sure what she's actually saying herself anymore, just that she's letting things she'd never had the guts to actually say pour out of her until they're out in the world and safe where she can't take them back. It's cathartic. It's necessary. He really needs to let her finish before she loses all her new-found nerve. She takes Killian's hand in her right, ridiculously aware of how sweaty her palms are.

"So, I would like you to take this back, and wear it as a reminder that I love you. I choose you. And that nothing, not even death, can come between us."

Awkwardly – God when did she become so uncoordinated? – she slips the ring onto his smallest finger, Killian watches her do it with suspiciously glittery eyes, her own vision blurring at the edges until his face is all she can see.

"Careful Swan," he says, clearly aiming for levity with a note of caution, as if he's afraid that the wrong words may break her and send her running (she is so done with running), "a man might get the idea that he's being propositioned."

Emma rolls her eyes, mostly just to give herself a chance to steel herself (he's going to make her actually say the words, isn't he? Not that she can blame him).

"I should have known you'd be a stickler for tradition. Do you want me to get down on one knee?"

Normally an opening like that would be worth a good innuendo or six, but he just watches her, fear and doubt and something else warring over his features. She thinks it's hope. God, she _hopes_ it's hope.

Somewhere between the lake edge and her own front door she's turned into her mother.

"Emma…" he draws her name out as a warning, a last chance to back out.

"Killian," she huffs, pouting at him because she is way out of her depth now and she just needs him to _answer_ her, "I'm waiting for an answer."

He smiles then, and it's like the sun breaking over them both and chasing the shadows of doubt out to the edges of night where they belong, the sort of smile she intends to spend her whole life basking in.

"Well," he teases, "I'm still waiting for the question, love."

Of course he is.

She growls at him good-naturedly and jumps up, his arms come up to support her as she locks her ankles around his waist, her forehead coming to rest on his.

"Marry me, you ridiculous pirate."

She feels the way his breath catches in his throat and his heavy swallow, the way he presses himself a little harder against her – as if checking that she's real, that this is real – and then he's swinging her into his arms and dipping her into a kiss that tastes like yes and thank you and _forever_.

"Why Saviour," he pants as they come up for air, "I thought you'd never ask."

She unlocks the door with magic and he carries her over the threshold, their giggles cut short by the slamming of the door, and if they never make it as far as the bedroom before scattering their clothes on the floor, well.

At least they're alone.

* * *

 **Done and done!**

 **If you enjoyed it feel free to come say hi on tumblr (I'm mahstatins there) and headcanon grossly fluffy painful angst with me. It's my jam.  
**


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